Tagträume
by dasseinhundin
Summary: 34, Coffee, 8: "Before he even gives whatever poor soul has dared to interrupt him permission, the door swings open, and then things get weird." [Oneshots, tumblr prompts, and drabbles focused around Fakir and Ahiru. Canon/post-canon & AUs, ratings & genres may vary]
1. Lucid

**Written for lyriette on tumblr. **

**The prompt: **

_"...sometimes fakir would write stories saying the both of them would have a shared lucid dream together that night when they fell asleep, and maybe in their dreams ahiru could be a girl and they could chat and dance and do many things they can't in the waking world?"_

**Rating: K+**

**Genres: Romance, angst(ish)**

* * *

He drops his quill with slightly trembling fingers, nervous excitement humming through his veins. This is okay, isn't it? He misses her terribly. Guilt claws at his insides but he's too tired to care, pushing back from his desk as his chair loudly squeals against the hardwood floor. He winces and turns to see if he's woken her, but Ahiru is still curled beside his pillow, one wing over her head and back bobbing steadily up and down with steady breaths. He lets out a slow breath of his own because he's grateful that he hasn't woken her; if he had, he wouldn't have the will to go through with this.

Fakir quietly puts out the lamp on his desk and at once the room is flooded with inky blues and the cool grey light of the moon. He shuffles to bed, too anxious to change and too exhausted to care. He prays that it works, and hopes that he can live with himself in the morning.

* * *

He awakens at the lake.

Fakir is perched in his favorite chair, portable desk in his lap and quill in his hand and the sun burning on his cheeks. At first he thinks that he's merely awoken from a dream, a simple fleeting thought in the late morning sun, but then he sees her.

She's kneeling at the edge of the pond, throwing crumbs at the birds who drift among the lake's rippling surface. Her hair is long and red, catching the light to shimmer in a thousand different shades. Her voice is soft and somewhat off tune as she hums a song under her breath, and all at once Fakir jumps to his feet, writing utensils clattering loudly on the wooden dock.

Ahiru turns to see him running to her, eyes as blue as a May morning and cheeks flushed red with surprise.

"Ah, Fakir!" She squeaks as he engulfs her in his arms, tight and disbelieving.

"It worked," He murmurs, burying his face into her hair. He tightens his hold around her slim shoulders. "I can't believe it worked."

"What worked?" She asks, and her voice is as sweet as anything he's ever heard.

"My story." He says. "I wrote a story."

"You did?" She quacks, cerulean eyes wide and so, so beautiful. He wants to kiss her in this moment, but he refrains.

"I did," He confesses. "I don't want to make you human in the real world. It's risky, and I don't want to take the chance of hurting you in the process. But also…I know that you want to stay as a duck. We promised each other that we'd be our true selves."

An almost bitter laugh bubbles from his throat but the sound is too pathetic. He holds her closer, too scared to look her in the eye. "I just wanted to hear your voice again."

"Fakir…" Ahiru says, and it sounds like a whimper. Fakir pulls back enough to see tears brimming in her eyes. All at once the view is striking and terrible, and it juxtaposes horribly with the almost saturated hues of the flowers blooming around them in the grass.

"Don't cry!" He barks, harsh and scared because _he'd done this_. He'd imposed his selfish desires upon her once again, even if only in his dreams. How awful he must be, promising forever and then going on to crave her regardless. "Don't cry, please, _dammit_, don't cry."

"But—"

"No," Fakir cuts her off, voice hoarse. He's screwed up. He's been selfish and he'd wronged her. How insecure she must feel, how insignificant and unworthy, when it is _he _that should be cowing at her feet. "Don't. It's my fault. I—I _promised_ you and I—" His voice cracks. "I still…I'm so sorry, Ahiru."

Ahiru sniffles, flinging her arms around his neck, lithe and warm and smelling of sunshine and reeds. He's confused at her reaction, but the satisfaction he feels at the feel of her form against him makes his self-loathing all the more palpable. But his hands are led by puppet strings, wrapping themselves tightly and winding his fingers in her hair.

"I missed you too," She confesses.

Fakir's eyes widen a fraction. He moves to lean back and meet her gaze but she grapples to him like a lifeline in a storm, tense and shaking and warm and despite his swell of ineptitude, he rubs her consolingly.

"I really miss you." Ahiru cries, hiccupping against his shoulder. "I know I promised that we'd go back to being ourselves but I miss dancing and I miss Pique and Lilie and I miss Mister Cat and I miss feeding all of the birds and I miss eating at Miss Ebine's and I miss talking with everyone and _I miss you!_ I'm so _sorry_, Fakir. I tried to keep my promise but it's just so _hard_…!"

Fakir kisses her then, softly on her right eye. Ahiru stops, instantly, still as the surface of the lake on a windless day. He slowly moves to kiss the other, and then her nose, and then her cheeks. He follows the stream of her tears and murmurs against the side of her nose that he knows, _dear God, he knows._

"I've written stories, you know." He says quietly. "Dozens of stories. _Hundreds_ of them, all about you changing back into a girl."

"You did?" She asks, "But then why am I still a bird?"

"I never finished them. I was too scared that I'd hurt you, or that it wasn't what you wanted. I didn't want to force you into being a girl again, _especially_ after I'd promised that I would stay by your side."

"But you _have_—!"

"But I still _wanted_," He weeps. "I wanted you back! I wanted to talk to you, to dance with you. I wanted to be with you, like _this!_ As a _human!_ But I _promised_ you, dammit, and I still couldn't help it. I had to see you. I've been selfish."

"I wanted too," Ahiru whispers against him, and the feel of her breath against his ear makes his heart threaten to shatter his ribs. "I _still _want. I know I said I'd be okay with it, but…what if I'm not meant to be a duck anymore? I mean, we changed the story. Why can't _I _change? I mean, I still like being a duck but I want more than a duck should want. I want to dance, I want to speak, I want to sing, I want to be with people and make friends and I want to be a _girl again!"_ Her breath catches, and his shirt feels damp from her tears. "I'm terrible, aren't I?"

"Not at all," He says, kissing the top of her head. "Not at all."

—

In the morning he awakens feeling a hundred years older, and part of him swells with dread as he sees the duck beside him shift and flutter.

She opens her eyes and at once he can tell, _she knows._ His breath leaves him in a great wind, and he asks with fear quaking his bones, "You dreamed it too?"

She nods.

"And you meant it?"

She nods.

Fakir sucks in a trembling breath. He leans over and kisses the top of her head, gently and hesitantly and with a love fit to burst through his skin.

"Okay," He says, and the words are already flowing through his head and his fingers itch for a quill. "Okay."


	2. Coffee

**Written for amisspanda on tumblr.**

**The prompt:**

**"…**_how about your take on the Fakiru Student/Teacher AU?""_

**Rating_: K+_**

**Genres: Comedy, Fluff, AU**

* * *

Fakir stares at himself in the small mirror of his bathroom and the sight is not comforting. There are dusty purple bags beneath his bleary eyes, and his hair looks just north of a rat's nest. His face is still stained red from his dream, and at the thought of said dream he lets out a half-strangled moan of anguish.

It's all _her_ fault, that moron.

Ever since Fakir had started tutoring her, he's started to see her everywhere. At the store, in the library, at the coffee shop, and now, apparently, in his dreams as well.

Fakir can only remember bits and pieces, but the dream itself seemed innocent enough. He recalls little flashes of her pale, tiny hands wrapped in his much larger one, the sight of her smiling face and blue, blue eyes as he leans in closer to—

Fakir nearly misses the edge of his bed when he sits down to pull on his socks. Her fault. _Entirely_ her fault.

He goes about the rest of his morning in a similarly frazzled state, crashing toes into various objects and dropping things from too-clammy hands. Fakir has several moments where he goes to do something and loses his train of thought entirely because something reminds him of the ditzy redhead in his 9am lecture. He usually refrains from coarse language but when he drops his thermos on the counter and spills his coffee for _the second freaking time oh my _God, a string of expletives flies from his mouth at rapid-fire speed. Eventually he simply gives up, and decides to quiz his 8am on Thursday's reading to make up for his lack of caffeine.

* * *

By the time Fakir gets to his classroom, he's thoroughly aggravated with the world and it's unnaturally large population of redheads. Six separate times on his way in to work he had almost snapped his neck trying to catch a glimpse of a flicker of strawberry blonde locks, only to realize with mortification what he was doing when he'd see it wasn't her. His heart is still pounding at the memories, and he is less than thrilled to feel an unpleasant buzz if anticipation in his limbs despite a very prominent and upsetting lack of coffee.

And that's when he spots it.

The large cup of coffee sits there innocently enough, steaming warm and decadent in its promise of sweet, sweet caffeine. But he can see her name written across it even from across the room, thoughtful and mocking.

He's not sure how she would even know his order. Then again they've run into each other so many times at the coffee shop by now that she must have overheard him order it. How stupidly considerate of her. He trudges over to the cup with as much enthusiasm as a man approaching a firing squad.

Sure enough, beneath her name is the same messy scrawl that took him three tests and a pop quiz to decipher. The message is written in bright purple sharpie:

"_Thanks again for helping me study yesterday! See you __latte__! -Ahiru_"

The pun is so terrible and so _her _that he lets out an audible groan. He sinks down into his chair, moaning his misfortune to the empty room. Why? Why, out of everybody in the entire university, in the entire city, in _the entire freaking universe _did he have to fall for her?

Fakir goes ramrod straight in his chair, eyes wide with absolute horror.

No. _No._ He _refuses_.

She's his _student! _That is a solid hundred different ways of screwing himself over right there, from his job to his reputation to his teaching license. More so, she's an airhead! He can't count how many times he's seen her fall or trip or crash into something. Not to mention her streak of consistent tardiness. How freaking hard is it to wake up on time for a 9-am class? There is no way on this green freaking Earth that he could _ever_ fall for someone like that.

And yet here he is, irrationally glaring holes into the side of a rapidly-cooling coffee cup. The rich smell wafts to his nose, and Fakir comes to the conclusion that he is a masochist.

He tries to no avail to excuse his accepting the gift of coffee with the fact that she owes him one after making him spill his twice this morning (_even if she doesn't know it,_) and that it's only due to a desperate need of caffeine in his system. For the greater good of his 8 am class, he thinks, and he picks up the coffee and takes a sip.

It's so disgustingly sweet that he could puke. Honestly, he should have seen this coming. And yet he takes another sip and then another, and by the time it's half-gone all he can really taste is defeat.


	3. Performance

**Written for trixystix on tumblr.**

**The Prompt:**

"…_maybe Ahiru is nervous about her first performance and Fakir makes her feel better about it?"_

**Rating: K**

**Genres: Fluff**

* * *

"But what if I fall or what if I forget a step and oh my gosh, Fakir, what if I knock somebody over or I fall off the stage or _what if I—"_

Fakir looks down at her, stage makeup heavy on her delicate features, hair pristine and not a strand out of place. Her leotard's sequins shimmer in the dim light of the hallway and he's momentarily distracted by the way the lights catch in her eyes. He shakes his head.

"I _doubt_ you'll fall off the stage, moron. You're at the back of the corps, so unless you royally screw it up I don't think you have to worry about that. Knocking someone over, on the other hand, is a definite possibility."

"_Fakir, you're not helping!"_ Ahiru shouts indignantly, swatting at his arm in a distressed frenzy.

"It was a joke, relax." Fakir sighs, placing a hand on top of her head. Instantly she calms, tears beading in the corner of her eyes as she pouts up at him. The sight is so ridiculously adorable and endearing that he makes a note to hit himself later for blushing. He bends down a bit so that he's now level with her big blue eyes, wide with apprehension. "You're going to do great. We've been practicing together, haven't we?"

"Y-Yeah, we have." Ahiru says. She gnaws on her bottom lip, sniffling. "But what if I forget? Or I miss a step? It's my first time being cast in a production and everyone else is so excited and I don't want to mess up when everyone's worked so hard on it and there are so many _people! _I've never performed in front of so many people before!_"_

Fakir pats her head, sighing. "Deep breaths, jeez. First of all, you've worked just as hard as everybody else who will be on that stage, right?"

In fact, Fakir would venture to say that she'd worked even harder. Since the cast sheet went up Ahiru has been practicing almost nonstop, showing up early for classes and staying hours after the last few girls go home. Fakir has caught her practicing her steps several times in the living room, trying her best to be quiet as not to disturb him and failing to do so all the same when she inevitably crashes into their coffee table. She's been relentless in her dedication, and the thought of her wrapping her bleeding toes and icing her swollen feet make a deep affection burn fiercely in his chest.

"Right," Ahiru agrees, rubbing at the corner of her eye with a balled fist.

"So stop worrying about it, idiot. You're going to be great."

"But Fakir, what about all the people?"

"Forget about them." Fakir says, and he moves to wipe a tear from her eye with the pad of his thumb. Her skin is soft to the touch, and it makes his fingertips tingle. "Focus on me."

"Focus on you?"

"Yeah. Pretend it's just you and me in the living room. Don't look at the crowd, just look at me."

Ahiru sniffles once again, but her face slowly pulls into a bright smile that makes his heart flutter. "Okay. I'll just look at you." Suddenly she leaps at him, hugging him tightly around his middle. Fakir feels his face burn with embarrassment, hands awkwardly poised on her shoulders.

"Thanks, Fakir. You always know how to make me feel better." Ahiru murmurs against his shirt.

Fakir feels something thick in his throat, heart hammering and ready to burst from his chest. He thinks of the last time he'd held her like this, back when she'd first become human again, and Fakir slowly makes to wrap his arms around her.

"Idiot," He mumbles against the side of her head, but the word is warm with affection. "Stop crying or you're going to mess up your makeup."

Ahiru laughs, pulling back and pulling his heart with her. She rubs at her eyes again, careful not to smudge her mascara. "I know, it's just that I'm still nervous, you know?"

Fakir makes to speak again, but the door to backstage opens up down the hall. The sounds of pre-show chaos echo down the hall towards them as Pique pops out in full costume, looking around until she spots them.

"There you are, Ahiru! Hurry up, curtain call is in 10!"

Ahiru squawks, turning on her heel to bolt up the hallway. "I'm coming!" She shouts, but freezes to turn back at him. He can see the fear in her eyes, and he gives her a gentle smile, the one that only she sees.

"Just look at me." He says.

"Just look at you," She repeats, and with a smile, disappears.

* * *

When the curtain rises and the corps descends upon the stage, Fakir grips the armrests of his chair. He's purposely seated by the far right, directly in front of where Ahiru's marker should be. And sure enough he sees her step onto stage, face alight with nerves and eyes squinted against the harsh light of the spots. But he sees them widen as they meet his own, and then he sees her smile.

He smiles back effortlessly, and when the corps leaves the stage, he claps the loudest out of anyone.


	4. Spies

**Written for anonymous on tumblr.**

**The Prompt:**

"_Pique and Lilie follow Ahiru home and find out she's living with Fakir."  
_**Rating: K+**

**Genres: Comedy**

* * *

"Shhhhh!" Pique hisses, swatting at the tittering blonde behind her. "You don't want her to hear us, do you?"

"Oh, but I simply can't help it!" Lilie gushes, holding her cheeks in barely-contained fervor. "She's so secretive with where she lives. She must be ashamed of it! What if she lives in a decrepit little shack? Or under a bridge? Oh, just think of it: Poor little Ahiru, falling asleep in a cold, damp gutter with only the thought of her two best friends to warm her! Oh, how wonderful it would be!"

Pique grinds her teeth, "You're unbelievable."

Lilie gasps, appalled. "_Absolutely not_!"

"SssHHHH! Look! She's sitting down!"

Lilie quiets enough to peer out through the branches of the bush, and sure enough Ahiru is quietly perched on a bench about ten feet off. Lilie squeals behind her hand.

"Oh, this is everything I could have ever hoped for! Poor Ahiru alone on her bench just awaiting the cruel darkness of night where she'll lie awake waiting for her dear friends to come save her and give her shelter!"

Pique slaps a hand over her mouth, squinting as a figure makes its way up the path towards them. "Hush, there's someone else coming! It kind of looks like—"

And it _is:_ swaggering up the path is the familiar brooding shape of Pique's former interest, permanent frown in place as always. _He'd be so much more handsome if he'd just lighten up_, she thinks as Fakir makes his way towards Ahiru.

The two look on in interest, even Lilie attempting to keep quiet as they strain to hear the two converse. While it's true that Ahiru is the only person on campus that Fakir will not blatantly try to scare away, they've never seen them together very much. It may be because Fakir had taken up classes in the English department, but even still the two made for an odd sight together.

"Home! He just said something about 'home'!" Pique hisses eagerly. Lilie turns to her, excitement brimming in her wide green eyes.

"Maybe he's asking her if she truly does live on a bench! Oh, maybe he'll mock her until she's in tears!"

"Shooosh. We're missing something—_they're leaving?!"_

Lilie and Pique pop up from the bush as Fakir and Ahiru make their way from the park, walking so close that their hands almost touch.

_Interesting._

"We have to follow her!" Pique announces, and Lilie claps in agreement.

* * *

Tailing the pair is much more difficult than either girl anticipated. Both are near exhaustion from running and ducking and diving for cover, and there was more than one time when Pique had been sure that Fakir had caught them. But the older teen never says a word, merely glancing over his shoulder and turning back to the redhead chattering beside him.

The two follow them out of town until they're a good ways into the woods, and the farther they go the more confused they become.

"Where the heck are they going?" Pique whispers, voice hoarse with exhaustion. Lilie shakes her head, just as puzzled as her friend.

It isn't until Fakir and Ahiru arrive at a small cottage by a pond that the girls can properly hear them.

"So I'm cooking tonight, right?"

"No way. You burnt it the last time. _I'm _cooking dinner tonight."

"It wasn't that bad!" Ahiru protests as Fakir makes to unlock the door. "You always make fun of my cooking."

"That's because it's always terrible."

"Well, at least I'm not the one who falls asleep at their desk and gets ink all over my face in the morning!"

"Th-That was _one time_!"

The two continue bickering until they're inside the house and the door shuts, cutting them off to the world. Pique and Lilie stare at the door in shock before turning to each other.

"You don't think…" Pique murmurs, eyes wide.

"That Fakir-senpai and Ahiru are living together?" Lilie finishes, the glee in her eyes unmistakable. "Oh, this is even better than the bench! Two lovers living secretly in the forest, only to be discovered and shunned by the town! They'll have to drop out of school and learn how to live off the land, toiling away until their fingers are worn to the bone~!"

"Lilie, shut up, they're going to hear you!" Pique pleads, trying to cover her friend's mouth. She can see Fakir in the window, and Lilie's elated ramblings are growing to notable volumes. "Seriously, they're gonna find out!"

"But _think of it_, Pique! Think of them as poor lonely wretches, thrown to the waysides of society because of their inappropriate tryst! Having no one to turn to but their dearest friends, Pique and Lilie~!"

_"__Lilie—!"_

But it's too late: The two freeze as Fakir appears again in the window, staring straight out at their bush with a look that could freeze a roaring fire. The girls hold their breath, Pique's hands clenched desperately over Lilie's mouth as they pray that their cover isn't blown. Soon enough, he drifts away from the window and out of sight. Pique releases Lilie's face, sighing heavily with relief.

"Maybe—" She says, "Maybe we shouldn't come back here again."

Even Lilie, ever the harbinger of chaos, looks a little shaken at their close brush with doom.

"Perhaps you're right," She agrees, but the spark of madness returns to her eyes and fills Pique with newfound dread. _"But what a wonderfully terrible end that would have been~!"_


	5. Realize

**Rating: K**

**Genres: Romance**

* * *

Fakir supposes looking back that he fell in love the way Ahiru learned to dance: difficultly, gracelessly, and not entirely like a duck out of water.

It's startling that he can't even quite pinpoint _when_; just the fact that one day he awakens to see her curled beside him on his pillow, soft yellow feathers shimmering in the early morning light and realizes that '_this, this is what I want to live for._' For the way her feathers catch the morning light, for the way her eyes glimmer like the distant light of stars, for the feel of her hummingbird pulse and the warmth of her form beside him.

It hits quick like a one-two punch and leaves him red-faced and doubled over, fighting for steady breaths and some semblance of composure. He hears her soft, drowsy quacks of confusion and he mumbles to her that it's nothing, that it's still early and that she should get more sleep. She makes another small noise of questioning, one that makes his heart do the strangest little leap that only until just now he had no real explanation for, and settles back against his pillow.

Fakir would remember this moment with great clarity upon looking back; the slight chill in the bedroom from the mid-autumn morning, the smell of parchment and crumbling leaves, and the warmth that settles in his chest as he looks at the small yellow bird in his bed. His eyes soften as he gazes upon her, tiny and delicate and more precious than gold. It's surprising how natural the feeling is, how perfectly nestled it is between his lungs, how light and warm and tender. Perhaps it's because of his own insecurities that he's never quite noticed it before, but now it nests behind his ribcage like a joyous, singing bird, ready to burst from his skin.

How had there ever been a time where he had found her reprehensible? How was there ever a time where he had been able to wake without her beside him? The notions now are inconceivable. Fakir had known it deep within himself when they had been in the Lake of Despair, and he thinks himself the fool for never realizing sooner. Ah, and how easy it was to promise forever! And how easier still it is to keep such a promise now that he's aware of just how deep her roots run within him. She's vital now, like the water and sun to a wilted sapling.

Fakir lays back down slowly as not to disturb her, turning on his side to study her round little face. Such a tiny thing, so delicate and frail and yet so incredibly resilient. To think that a duck was able to change all of their lives as drastically as she did; to think how drastically she keeps changing _his_. He thinks to how it was before the story ended, before she'd trusted him to hold her pendant. The mistakes still make his stomach lurch with guilt and self-loathing, but the ache is soothed at the sound of her sleepy titters beside him. Fakir smiles gently, effortlessly, as easily as he has in years as he reaches a hand over to gently run his knuckle down the side of her cheek.

Her feathers are so soft that it feels like no more than a gossamer against his skin. To think that such a sweet light would ever glow upon a bitter wretch like him, would ever reach out her hand and pull him up from the depths of his _own_ despair without ever once thinking of her own. He glances down to his ink-crusted cuticles, to the fading callouses of his neglected swordsmanship, and thinks how he'd never know that there was more than one way to protect without her guidance.

And it's guide him she does as he drifts back into a peaceful slumber with the thought of her smile and wings. All that morning, he sleeps soundly.


	6. Itch

**Written for anonymous on tumblr.**

**The Prompt:**

"_... maybe ahiru trying to inspire fakir out of his own writer's block?"_

**Rating: K+**

**Genres: Romance**

* * *

Fakir crumples the parchment into a tight ball, tossing it behind him to the small pile of papers behind his chair on the dock. He gives a low groan and massages his eyes before slumping over in his seat, elbows on his knees in a display of complete vexation. There's a story itching in his fingertips, but every single sentence he's written in the past three days has been nothing but droll clichés and fairytale tropes that sit as well as a rock in his stomach. _There's a story here_, he thinks: a happy ending fighting its way from the cage of his mind, but he simply can't find the story it belongs to.

He glances up at a concerned '_quack' _that sounds from the end of the dock. Ahiru has been curled up at the edge of the planks, basking in the warmth of the early afternoon sunlight on the wood. But it seems that now his minor tantrum has disrupted her peaceful dozing, and in typical Ahiru fashion, she marches up to him as well as a duck can march in search of an explanation. He's become rather adept at reading her eyes, and so it's easy to discern the question there.

"Don't worry about it," He grumbles. He puts his head in his hands and hopes that she leaves him to stew, but she continues to peck insistently at the hem of his pants. He sighs. "It's the story I'm writing. Well, _trying_ to write, at least."

Ahiru cocks her head to the side, blue eyes wide with inquiry.

"The problem is that I don't actually know what story I'm writing. I feel…_something_, but everything I've tried writing just feels wrong somehow. Like the ending doesn't match the story, or that it's not meant for those characters." Fakir groans and runs a hand through his hair. It's getting long, he notes absently. "But how could an ending be wrong if I don't even _know_ the ending itself? How the hell can an ending that I don't even know be wrong for a story that I haven't even written? It's absurd."

Ahiru quacks, fluffing her feathers a bit. She gives him a look that he's seen her wear a hundred times, both as Tutu and as a girl. And somehow, he thinks with the smallest hint of amusement, she can still pull it off as a duck. He watches her waddle to where he had discarded his lapdesk and quirks a brow as she picks up the quill with her beak. With all the grace of a duck out of water, she marches determinedly towards him before head-butting his leg. Fakir leans down to pet her, but she forces the quill into his hand instead.

Fakir quirks a brow at her. "You think I should keep writing?"

Ahiru gives a loud, affirmative _'quack_' that leaves no room for arguing. Fakir raises his hands in forfeit, sighing. "Fine, _fine_." He concedes. She makes a noise akin to what he can only assume is meant to be a snort of approval before marching her way back to the edge of the dock and plopping down in her earlier spot.

Fakir shakes his head and picks up his lapdesk. He spends a good fifteen minutes just tapping the nib of his quill against the paper, frustration swelling as his thoughts continue to elude him. After almost an hour passes again to no avail he looks up from his sheets to tell Ahiru that he's done for the day, but his breath catches in his throat.

It may have been the sunlight playing through the trees or the heat of the summer afternoon playing tricks on his tired mind, but for the most fleeting of moments he _sees _her.

She looks older than when she had last been a girl, and it's to be expected with nearly five years having passed since he'd last seen her. But her hair is still the same strawberry blonde, long and twining down her thin back. Her face has lost some of its childish roundness, replaced with a quiet femininity that makes his heart ache.

For that single, precious moment he_ sees _her.

And then she's gone. All that remains of his vision is the little yellow duck sitting contentedly by the edge of the dock, blissfully unaware of how violently his world has just tilted off axis. Fakir's hand itches again, and he writes.

* * *

He does not look up from his paper for a long time. The sun is now low in the sky, and he does not realize how late it is until he marks the last punctuation on the page and sees that the sky is now a glowing peach.

The words had flown on their own, fueled by his own burning need to record exactly what he'd seen in that moment. The language isn't flowery but it's honest and heartfelt, and Fakir marvels at how easily the story had come to him. Despite all of the hardships, it surprises him just how simple a story it turns out to be: a story of a beautiful girl with an even more beautiful soul, sitting on a dock on a summer afternoon while the man who loves her looks on in adoration.

He's brought out of his musings at the sound of his name. It's soft and sweet and so achingly familiar that it makes tears well in his eyes.

"Fakir?"

He heart jumps to a gallop but Fakir doesn't look up, even as he hears the soft footfalls approaching him. His hands are shaking and his lungs are burning, and for a moment he thinks that the sunlight is too impossibly cruel to give him such illusions. But he feels her hand on his cheek, soft and small and freckled, and when he looks up she's smiling and framed by a halo of sunset.

He leaps to his feet and sweeps her into his arms, papers forgotten as he breathes her in and drinks her voice like a man long dying of thirst. The papers lay scattered across the dock, innocent and unassuming, and in the back of his mind he notes that his hands no longer itch.


	7. Kiss

**Written for zeifure on tumblr.**

**The Prompt:**

_"IMAGINE FAKIR GIVING DUCK!AHIRU A SMOOCH AND THEN SHE TURNS INTO A HUMAN BECAUSE TRUE LOVE FIRST KISS (AND THEY ALL LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER)"_

**Rating: K+**

**Genres: Fluff, Comedy**

* * *

He slips into bed after dousing the lamp, hand still aching from the hours of writing and eyes blearing with exhaustion. A sigh of contentment escapes him as his head settles on the pillow.

_What a day._

Earlier that morning Fakir had been struck by inspiration like a lightning rod, hurriedly excusing himself from breakfast and rushing to his desk to scribble down the story that had been drifting through his mind.

It was a cutesy little tale about a duck and a boy and a kiss, and he knows that Autor is going to ream him for falling into typical fairytale tropes in the morning. But the idea nagged at him too insistently to simply let it _not_ be written, and so Fakir had spent the day writing until his hand felt just about ready to fall off his wrist.

Fakir hears a soft, sleepy quack beside him and sees Ahiru curled up beside him. She fluffs her feathers and in the dim light of the room he can see her azure eyes flutter open, and Fakir feels his chest constrict with affection for the tiny duck on his pillow. She gives another soft quack when she sees him, and he gives her a small smile.

"Sorry for waking you," He apologizes quietly, stroking the top of her head with the tips of his fingers. "I'm coming to bed now, so just go back to sleep, okay?"

Ahiru gives another quack and settles back down, and Fakir feels something inside of himself melt. _Like springtime_, he thinks. Like warmth, like life, like the sun. And she _is_ the sun to him, a tiny ball of joy that thawed his heart and found him the strength to change.

It's probably because he's so exhausted that he's so bold, but Fakir feels light as air and as warm as a summer day and it's all because of _her_, so he leans over and presses a soft kiss to the top of her head.

And then suddenly there's a bright light and loud, alarmed quacking and there's a feather in his mouth.

He splutters, wide awake and confused as to what exactly just occurred, but all sense of logic leaves him when he hears a voice that is decidedly_ not a duck_ and sees a naked girl sitting beside him, wide-eyed and surrounded by a pile of feathers.

Fakir promptly launches himself off of the bed, colliding loudly with the nightstand.

"Fakir?!" Ahiru shouts, and she sounds just as concerned and confused as he feels. He hears the bed shift, probably her trying to see if he's alive, and he presses his face harder against the hardwood floor.

"_C-C-Cover up!"_ He all but shrieks, blood rushing to his face so quickly that it makes the room spin.

He can hear her _'eep!' _of realization, and the rustling of covers. Fakir risks a glance upwards to see that Ahiru has cocooned herself in his quilt, eyes wide and face flushed and looking so ridiculously beautiful that it makes him want to shout because _he should not be thinking about how adorable she looks right now._

"What-What _happened?!"_ She squeaks, and it is absurd just how badly Fakir has missed her voice.

"I don't know," He says from the floor, head spinning. "I haven't even written any-"

And then it hits him. He sits up slowly and stares at his desk, at the stack of paper sitting innocently on top of it, before flopping back over in an embarrassed heap.

"_Fakir?!_"

* * *

"So you're telling me that _this_," Autor slaps the stack of paper in his hands with distaste, "is what brought her back?"

Fakir takes a sip of his tea to cover the growing flush on his face. "Yes," He says, voice clipped.

"You _are _aware that this plays into every overused cliche there is in literature, yes?"

Fakir's eyebrow twitches. "I never claimed that it was any good."

Autor snorts, flipping through the manuscript. They grow quiet again until the man glances back up at Fakir from beneath his glasses, his own eyebrow quirked in question.

"And you _still_ haven't told her as to what this story entailed?"

Fakir puts his cup down and gives his cousin a pointed glare. "_No_."

"Why not?"

Fakir is not about to tell Autor that it's because he's too embarrassed and ashamed to admit that he had stolen a kiss while Ahiru had been asleep, nor that he was too frightened that she did not feel the same way, so he simply says, "That is of no concern to you."

Autor clears his throat as he skims the pages again, and Fakir decides that he does not like the smug grin growing on the other man's face. He takes another loud sip of his tea, shooting daggers over the rim of his cup as Autor glances up at him with no small amount of mirth in his eyes.

"Well then, I guess that I'll just trust that you're aware of the fact that in fairytales, the kiss only works if _both _parties involved are in love with each other."

Autor has always been too perceptive for his own good, so Fakir believes that he is perfectly justified in spitting out his tea all over his jacket.


	8. Wedding

**Written for youknownothingjonsnowisouralways on tumblr.**

**The Prompt:**

"_Have you ever tried to write about fakiru's wedding?"_

**Rating: K**

**Genres: Romance**

* * *

It's a quiet affair in their kitchen of all places, one night in the dark after they step back through the threshold of their cottage. It had been clear that evening, so he had bundled her in his arms and the two had taken a walk down towards the lake to admire the stars. They come home late into the night after hours of tracing constellations and recounting stories, but the moon is still bright as it streams through the window: bright enough to see her eyes, and bright enough for him to see what shines within them. It is what gives him the courage to give her the gift he'd long since made.

He sets her down on the kitchen table with promises of gifts and a hurried return, and sets off down the darkened hall to his—their—room. She waits patiently, unsure of what he could have and unknowing to how his hands tremble as they search through his desk for a small satin box. He returns moments later with the box clutched tightly in hand, and his breath catches as the silvery glow illuminates the blue of her eyes. He sits down beside her and places the box between them.

It's nothing extravagant, he insists with uncharacteristically clumsy speech, not like what he _wants_ to give her, because for someone so precious who asks for so little must surely deserve the world. She doesn't have to wear it by any means, not if she doesn't want to, of course. But he's saved up and he made these himself—with Charon's help, of course, because he's always been rubbish at smithing, but now he's rambling and she quacks softly to bring him back and he gives a small, earnest smile before petting her soft, downy head. The words come easily after that.

He opens the box and shows her two matching rings, their gold dimly shimmering as he lifts it up to show her one that dangles from a silver chain.

He'd meant it when he'd said forever, he tells her.

She stares at him with wide, disbelieving eyes, and he's never been sure if normal ducks could cry but she is a decidedly, wonderfully _abnormal_ duck and his heart swells when he can tell that they're tears of joy. He feels a few of his own prick at his eyes, and he promises her a thousand lifetimes and any time beyond them.

"I love you," He says, and he slips the chain around her neck.

She never utters a sound the whole time, but somehow he knows what she wants to say. He always knows, and it's why despite his tears he smiles so brightly as he slides his own ring on. No more words are spoken then, but he gives her a kiss atop her head to let her know that he knows that they're there.


	9. Space

**Written for lyriette on tumblr.**

**The prompt:**

_"fakiru IN SPACE"_

**Rating: K+**

**Genres: Angst, Romance, AU**

**WARNINGS: SPOILER-ISH FOR THE MOVIE "INTERSTELLAR"**

* * *

She's shaking in his arms, and with every aching gasp of her breath he feels his heart splinter just that much more. Her tears are seeping through his shirt, wet and warm and sticky against his skin, and he holds her all the tighter for it.

"I'm so-sorr-ry," She stammers, inhaling sharply at each syllable. "I kb-know it's sel-selfish of me."

"Not at all," He replies, his own voice raspy with unshed tears. "_I'm _the one who's selfish."

"Not at all!" She interjects, pulling away from him, and Fakir knows in the marrow of his bones that the blue of her eyes in this moment will be something he remembers to the day he dies. "Y-You're sacrificing so much for us. For _all_ of us."

_But at what cost?_ Fakir thinks, aggrieved. He knows at what cost. He knows what he's leaving behind here on Earth, and the knowledge sits bitterly on his tongue: a life, a home, a family in this tiny woman with bright, bright eyes. He's leaving behind the feel of her skin, the sound of her voice, the warmth of her breath as she whispers words of safety and love in the dark.

Fakir pulls her against him again, tightly.

"I love you," He whispers, and it is with these words that he cries. "I love you, Ahiru. No matter what, I love you. Forever. Beyond that. I love you."

"I know," Ahiru cries. Fakir can hear the gentle acquiescence in her voice, can feel the soft curve of her smile against his throat, and it breaks him.

* * *

Through the launch he grips her necklace tightly. He's unable to feel it beneath the thick material of his gloves, but he knows well what it feels like from countless times before. Smooth and somehow warm, and shimmering like a diamond in sunlight. She had given it to him as he was packing the car to leave.

"_I want you to take it,_" Ahiru had said, opening his palm and gently closing his fingers around it. _"So you have a piece of me with you. You know, to remember."_

_"How could I forget you?" _He had asked her with a chuckle, but not without tears in his eyes.

"_It's not to remember me,_" She had replied, her small hands holding his tightly. "_It's to remember to come home."_

Fakir feels the craft shake beneath him, hears the dull but thunderous roar of the engines propelling them through the atmosphere.

"_I'm coming back." _He had promised.

The first half of the spacecraft detaches, and soon the second as well. Soon enough only the main hull of the ship is rocketing towards Mars, the first leg on their crew's long journey. Fakir stares out one of the windows and watches the dusty blue of the Earth below them. Wonders where Ahiru is right now. Wonders what she's doing.

It had been early morning when they'd taken off, but she would be up making too much breakfast, feeding the birds on their windowsill and talking to her little tomato plant on the porch. He thinks of her alone in their house, and his throat tightens. Who will be there for her during thunderstorms? To help her reach the plates on the top shelf of the cupboard? To wipe away her tears when she cries? To carry her back to bed when she falls asleep on the couch after staying up too late? To make her laugh? To make her _happy?_

"I'm coming back," He whispers, clutching the pendant at his throat. _"I'm coming back._"

* * *

"_Twenty-five years_?!" Fakir roars as he stumbles back into the main craft. He hears Rue collapse beside him in exhaustion, he himself still reeling from their dismal failure of a scouting mission. "How could it have been twenty-three years?"

"Relativity," Mytho shrugs, his amber eyes tired. He doesn't look as if he's aged much, except for in his eyes. "You and Rue knew that going down to that planet that there was a possibility of losing time."

"Not _that_ much time!" Fakir wails, rushing towards the aft of the ship where the communication stations were located. They've long ago stopped being able to send them out, but even after passing through the wormhole they were still able to receive video transmissions. He holds his breath as he flips through the ones sent to him, and sits down as he presses play.

Ahiru has been faithful to send him a video at least once a week for every year that's passed. It takes him well over five hours to finish all of the messages, and he cries when he sees in the most recent ones that her hair's begun to gray.

* * *

It's quiet in space.

Since Autor's demise back on the first planet, the ship has been quiet. Mytho and Rue keep to themselves and each other, engaging with him when they pass by but often preoccupied in their own melancholic musings. Perhaps it's because they've all finally begun to realize how perilous their mission truly is. But they knew it going in that there was a risk of death; a risk of obliteration. Loneliness. The possibility of never seeing another human face again.

But not in Fakir's mind. In his mind, he's still going home. He's coming back. He'd promised her.

His fingers slide down to the pendant at his throat, and somewhere he hears a clock ticking.

* * *

Fakir does not dwell on how he's gotten back. He thinks to explosions and black holes and Relativity and luck, but everything feels like alcohol on still-fresh wounds, and he focuses on the door in front of him.

It's been one hundred and three years, six days, eight hours, and twenty-nine minutes.

He holds his breath.

The doors slide open and he sees her lying on the stark-white hospital bed, small and frail and with hair as white as starlight. But her eyes are bright, and her smile is too. He collapses at her bedside, sobbing his apologies into her blanket.

Ahiru lays a tiny, wrinkled hand on his head, running it down his cheek and to his chin, where she nudges him to look up at her. Fakir looks up, gripping her hand in his much larger ones. Oh, how _small_ she is! His heart aches for all of the times he does not have. But she smiles like the day he'd left still, and moves to run her slender fingers over the pendant at his neck.

"You remembered," She whispered.

"Of course I did," He says, kissing her hand. It's soft and frail as rice paper, and he kisses it again and again and again, wishing with a breaking heart for it to be enough to soothe the ache in his bones.

Ahiru smiles again, and her eyes are bright, and this is what he wishes to remember of her when she passes away in his arms.

* * *

That night he looks up at the stars, and wonders if he'd done right. Mankind has surely survived, but he feels no real belonging among them anymore. Maybe this is also a cost, he thinks: the cost of seeing too much, and of losing too much.

He clutches the pendant, and he hears no sound.


	10. Roman

**Written for trixystix on tumblr.**

**The prompt:**

_"Fakiru~! Umm umm Romans/Gladiator AU?"_

**Rating: K+**

**Genres: Comedy, Fluff(ish), AU**

* * *

Fakir sits, sprawled on the cool marble of the palace floor. His _pallium_ is drenched, as is his shirt beneath his scale armor. He scowls haughtily as he swipes his damp bangs off his face with his free hand.

"Do you not pay attention?" He demands, glaring at the small woman who had just barreled into him.

She's a tiny thing dressed in a light blue _stola_, strawberry red hair twisted into a simple braided knot on the top of her head. Neither her dress nor her hairstyle show her to be of any significant status, but Fakir can see several golden bangles and arm cuffs that suggests her to be one of the higher-placed servants. Her blue eyes are apologetic as she quickly wipes at his face with her _palla._

_"_I am so sorry, sir!" The young lady apologizes, dabbing at the water still dripping from his brow. He swats her hand away, and she flinches back. "I was in a rush to return to her majesty, and I must not have been paying attention-"

"Do not touch me," Fakir hisses. She recoils as if burned, lowering her blue gaze to the ground.

"My apologies, my Lord." She says quietly. To her side she notices his helmet, dropped in their collision, and offers it to him meekly.

He snatches the helmet from her and stands before he dusts himself off. Straightening his pallium on his shoulder, he whisks past her to continue on to the council chambers. "See to it that it does _not happen again._" Fakir warns, leaving her to pick up the pieces of the shattered vase from the floor.

"H-Hey!"

Fakir turns around, shocked at the sharp tone of her voice. "You could at least apologize as well, you know!"

"Excuse me?" Fakir bites, regarding this slip of a girl in a drenched gown on the floor. "Do you know who I am?"

"No," She says, and he can hear her resolve falter in her voice for a moment before her blue eyes regain their fire. "But I know that it is rude to knock into someone and not even apologize!"

"Are you daft? _You_ were the one who knocked into _me." _Fakir snaps.

"Th-That may be so," The girl counters, "But you were also rushing yourself, so I would say that it's a little bit your fault as well!"

Fakir gapes at her audacity, before shaking his head and regaining his wits. "This is absurd. I don't have time to deal with you." He declares, spinning on his heel.

"Jerk," He hears her mumble as he stalks down the hallway, and Fakir despises how a part of himself admires her moxie. With a deep scowl, he fixes his helmet upon his head and trudges ahead to the council room.

* * *

"My apologies for my tardiness, your highness." Fakir says, kneeling before the emperor. His lip curls as he continues. "I had an unfortunate interaction in the hall that kept me."

Mytho grins down at him from his seat at the head of the council, mirth in his eyes. "Did this interaction include a swim in the courtyard's fountain, Fakir?"

Fakir feels his face burn and he scowls. "No, your majesty. Merely a brainless servant girl who does not know how to pay attention when she should be."

Mytho laughs, and tells him to sit down. "I would offer you water, Fakir, but it seems as though you've already had some," He teases.

Fakir's glower remains throughout the meeting.

* * *

When they are released from council, Fakir and Mytho take to roaming the hallways together. The two had grown up closely and often confided in the other, often taking the few hours before dinner to discuss whatever political turmoil was stewing at that moment. They are in the midst of a discussion over the expansion of Palmyra and its potential effect on trading when the coquettish laughs of young women float to their ears.

Down the hallway they see the empress strolling towards the gardens, her deep purple stola and rich blue palla striking against her pale skin and dark, feathered hair. Followed behind her is a small gaggle of women, the one closest to her left chattering away being the woman who had crashed into Fakir earlier.

"That's the girl who crashed into me with that damned water vase!" Fakir scowls. Mytho turns his attention from his wife to the younger lady beside her, his features lightening in amusement.

"So I see that you've met the Lady Ahiru, then." He remarks. "She's Rue's newest lady-in-waiting. She's only been here for a week or two."

One of the girls had spotted them and then soon all of the women are looking at the two men at the end of the hall. It takes only a moment for the small group to make its way towards them.

"Esteemed husband," Rue greets, bowing her intricately braided head in respect. She turns to Fakir, garnet eyes flickering in amusement. "And Sir Fakir, a pleasure."

"Your Majesty," Fakir replies, bowing at the waist respectfully. "To what do we owe the honor of your presence?"

Rue grins, side-eyeing the redhead who has seemed to shrink down to nonexistence at her side. "Nothing of particular importance," She says airily, and Fakir fights the urge to grimace. He too had grown up with Rue, and knows the tone of her voice well; it is one that he has heard many times throughout the years, and it never ends well for him. "I merely wished to introduce you to my newest attendant. Seeing as how you and my husband are such close friends, I would imagine that you two will see a great deal of each other from now on."

"Of course," He responds a little too stiffly.

Rue grins, and Fakir can tell from the slight shaking of Mytho's arms that the emperor himself is fighting to keep a straight face. Wretches, the both of them.

"This is Sir Fakir, _Magister Millitum_ of the Roman Cavalry and a close personal friend of both my husband and myself. Sir Fakir, this is my newest lady-in-waiting, Lady Ahiru." She guides the girl to her side, hand resting gently on her shoulders. "She's new here, and I am sure that you will do all you can to help her feel as welcomed as possible."

"Of course, Your Highness." He turns to this girl, Ahiru, and bows his head. "A pleasure to meet you, Lady Ahiru." Fakir says through clenched teeth.

The girl jumps, as if the sound of her name on his lips is akin to the bite of a viper. She recovers, however, and curtsies deeply. "A pleasure, Sir Fakir," She says, distaste as thinly veiled as his own.

The two exchange venomous stares, which Mytho to his credit strategically disarms. "Fakir and I were just on our way to the royal study," He says. "Where are you off to, esteemed wife?"

"We were on our way to the gardens. They're lovely at this time of day," Rue says with a demure tilt of her lips. "I do not wish to keep you if you and Sir Fakir have business to attend to, Husband."

"So we shall meet again soon, yes?" Mytho cheerfully says, shepherding Fakir down the hallway like a sheep. "Please do enjoy the gardens."

"We will," Rue calls back, and the girls erupt in titters before disappearing down the corridor.

* * *

Mytho's study is one of the few places in the palace that he and Fakir could afford to drop all formalities with one another, and it is exactly what Fakir does as soon as the heavy curtains are drawn closed.

"What in the name of the Gods would Rue want an attendant like _her_ for?" He says. "She's brainless and pays absolutely no attention. Jupiter, it's as if she were a bird!"

Mytho sinks down into the plush seat behind his desk. "Fakir, you've met Ahiru all of once. I feel like that is hardly a fair assumption to make of her."

"I've seen her as many times as I've needed to." He replies. "In fact, this is the first time I've ever seen her face, new to the palace or not. What family does she belong to?"

"She belongs to none. She was born with no standing to speak of."

"A citizen in the court?" Fakir gapes. "How did Rue ever find her?"

Mytho smiles, this time with fondness. "She had been a background performer for a travelling show that Rue had gone to see while we were in Neapolis. As they were leaving Rue realized that she had lost her brooch, and when she sent one of the guards to find it they brought back a rather battered-looking Lady Ahiru."

Fakir quirks a brow at this. "Battered?"

"Mmm. It seems that one of her fellow performers found it and saw fit to keep it for themselves. Lady Ahiru had disagreed, and fought them to return it."

"Why would she do something so foolish?" Fakir scoffs. "She's the size of an olive branch."

"That's precisely what Rue asked," Mytho chuckles. "Lady Ahiru just told her simply that, and I quote, '_stealing is wrong, especially from somebody who seems so nice_'. Needless to say, Rue took quite a liking to her after that and insisted she come back with her."

Fakir frowns thoughtfully and looks out the window towards the sprawling complex of the gardens below them. He can see Rue lounging by a fountain, the girls sprawled out on the grass around her as they all chatted happily with one another. He spots Ahiru to Rue's immediate left, beside her on the lip of the fountain. Even from a distance, he can tell of Rue's fondness for the girl.

"My, have I piqued your interest in the Lady Ahiru, Fakir?" Mytho teases, laying a hand on Fakir's shoulder. Fakir fights the urge to blush, sucking his teeth before whisking himself away from the window.

"You should refrain from the wine at dinner tonight, Your Highness," Fakir sneers. "It seems to be clouding your head."

Mytho laughs, waving his jab off with a shake of his hand. "I only tease, Fakir."

"Of course. If you'll excuse me," Fakir says, slipping out the door. "I have more pressing matters to attend to. Like wondering how on earth our empire manages beneath the rule of such a frivolous emperor."

"I'll give you a hint to that, Fakir," Mytho says with no shortness of mirth, "Behind every great man, there is a great woman."

"Your romanticism compels me," Fakir drawls.

Mytho waves him off good-naturedly. "You'll understand one day, Fakir." The young emperor makes a glance towards the window, where the sound of bell-like voices ring out from the gardens. "Perhaps even sooner than you think."

"I await with bated breath."

"See that you do. I will see you at dinner, then?"

"Of course." Fakir says, and with a small bow, he slips through the curtains and out to the hall. It isn't until he is a ways away from the study that he allows himself to ponder his good friend's words.

_Behind every great man…_

He thinks to the redhead with her wide blue eyes, sitting in a puddle of water, and scoffs.


	11. Mermaid

**Written for alimarie747 on tumblr.**

**The prompt:**

_"Clumsy, can't-sing-to-save-her-life mermaid/siren!Ahiru and impervious-to-siren-calls, somehow-falls-for-the-squawky-siren sailor!Fakir?"_

**Rating: K+**

**Genres: Comedy, Fluff, AU**

* * *

"I'm actually surprised."

Ahiru looks up at him from her spot in the tide pool beneath him, blue eyes wide and quizzical. She's fiddling with her long tangle of strawberry locks, trying in vain to comb them with the small tortoise-shell comb Fakir had found in the marketplace for her in the last port they had docked in. He idly remembers the time he'd found her trying to brush her hair out with a fork, and his defense to this day for buying her that comb is that he simply couldn't handle watching her idiocy any longer. She had accepted the gift enthusiastically and has spoken about the trinket to every gull from here to London.

She pauses in her efforts to give him her rapt attention, idly sticking it in her hair to keep it safe.

"Hm? About what?"

Fakir shrugs, looking towards the cresting waves beating against the rocky coast. For some reason, he can't seem to look in her eyes as he talks.

"You're the only mermaid who didn't try to sing to me when we met."

Since meeting Ahiru, it's actually sort of ridiculous how many mermaids he's met. He remembers Charon spinning tales about mermaids when he was a small child perched on his lap, listened to stories of how beautiful and otherworldly and mysterious they were, and how men will spend their entire lives searching for them. Fakir scoffs. He has absolutely no idea _how_ people could spend their entire lives searching for them: the ocean seems to be literally _infested_ with them.

Since setting sail from Germany, they've met dozens of them. It seems that they can't sail ten knots without seeing one. And every single one without fail has tried to seduce him with song. First was Freya and her rendition of "_The Nightingale"_, then Lilie and Pique with their duet of _"The Drowned Lover"_. They'd met Malen with her cover of "_Toll for the Brave"_, and Hermia not soon after crooning _"The Fair Sailor Lad"_. He's heard just about every sailor's song imaginable at this point from many different mermaids, all haunting and melodious and tempting in their offers but never quite enough to pull him in since Ahiru would always make a hasty entrance and fend off their efforts.

Fakir quirks a brow down at her when she does not answer after a moment, and sees that she's blushing from fin to freckles. He squints as she begins to pick at her split ends, and muses, "Come to think of it, I don't think I've _ever_ heard you sing."

Ahiru's blush darkens to an interesting purple, and her giggle takes on a high-pitched, guilty chime. "Tha—That's just silly, Fakir. Of course you've heard me sing." She says all too quickly to be even somewhat believable.

"Oh, really?" He pushes. "Then what did you sing to me when we met? My memory seems to be a bit _fuzzy_."

Ahiru laughs again, and starts frantically combing at her hair again. "Oh, you remember! It was that one song with the words about the ship and that guy…" Fakir stares at her until she's visibly squirming. Her hair in consequence to her fervent attentions just becomes even more mussed. Finally, after hitting a particularly stubborn snare, she bursts like a boiling teakettle.

"Okay, okay! I've never sung in front of you before!" She admits with a whine. "I didn't think it'd be worth it."

Frankly, Fakir is a little stung by the comment. But he plays it off with a seasoned tilt of his lips and a familiar furrowing of his brow. "Gee, thanks." He deadpans.

Ahiru finally looks at him and her eyes are wide and panicked, sunkissed skin rosy with mortification. "No, that's not it!" She insists, waving her hands frantically about. "I just didn't think it would work, is all! Not that you aren't worth it, I mean you _are,_ like, who wouldn't want to—erm, what I'm trying to say is, well, what I _mean_ is—"

"Spit it out already." Fakir snaps.

"_I can't sing, okay?"_

Fakir blinks once, twice, three times. Studies her frazzled expression in her aquamarine eyes, the deep stain of sunburn that colors her cheeks and shoulders, the slight pout of her lip. And then he snorts.

"It's not funny, you big jerk!" Ahiru shouts, splashing at him with the shallow water around her.

"The _worst—_" Fakir smirks, holding up an arm to block her sprays. "You are a _terrible_ mermaid. Honestly. What kind of mermaid doesn't know how to _sing?_ Isn't that what mermaids _do?"_

"Shut up!" Ahiru wails, splashing her tail in self-consciousness. Her thrashing makes the pool shimmer with ripples, and Fakir can't help but notice the way the sunlight catches on her scales. "I _know_ that I'm a terrible mermaid, okay! That doesn't mean that you have to be a jerk about it."

Fakir actually feels bad; Ahiru looks genuinely upset by his teasing. And he realizes suddenly how terrible it must actually be to be a mermaid who can't sing; Ahiru has explained many times how singing is how they find their mates.

_"__We don't drown them, we turn them!" _She had insisted one night during a heated conversation as to Mytho's fate with Rue. _"When a man hears a mermaid's song and falls in love, it's not them being bewitched or anything, it's them realizing that it's their soulmate!"_

"_Either way, you drag them into the ocean and never let them see the light of day again," _He had replied with a less than kind tone. The memory makes something akin to guilt burn in his breast; that had been the first time they'd met after Rue had taken Mytho and Fakir had been searching for them. He'd gone looking for leads on the siren who'd taken his charge, and ended up finding a redheaded mermaid trapped by low tide chattering idly with birds.

"Come on," Fakir offers with what he hopes sounds like sincerity, "It can't be _that_ bad."

"Yes it can," She mumbles, sinking down to blow dejected bubbles in the water with her lips.

"Don't pout about it, moron."

"I'm not a moron!" She shouts, whirling around and hurling the comb at his head. He dodges easily and hears it land in a nearby pool. "Stupid Fakir," She grumbles, drifting to the far side of her little tide pool.

Fakir sighs, getting up to go look for her comb. He knows that she can't exactly go herself to search and he refuses to listen to her whine about losing it for the next three weeks at sea, so he kicks off his boots and rolls up his trousers and proceeds to wade in the water, skimming for the dainty comb. He feels her eyes on him, and he pays her no mind; probably wishing for a flock of her loyal minions to swoop down from the sky and peck at his nose.

And then he hears her.

It's soft, barely audible against the crash of waves against the shore, but he hears her:

"_That she who's in distress may find, such friends as ne'er will fail her…_

He vaguely registers the feel of the tortoise shell comb in his hand, grasps it and stands and turns to face her with something very _unlike_ guilt now ready to burst through his ribs like a bird escaping a cage. Fakir stands in the pool just like this, trousers unrolling and soaking up the salty water and hair mussed by sea breezes and wide-eyed and completely disbelieving.

She's absolutely _dreadful._

"_But the standing toast, that pleased the most…"_

Awful.

_"__Was 'The wind that blows, the ship that goes…"_

He walks towards her, crouches down to look at her as she peers shyly up from him from beneath her dampened curls of hair. Her eyes are shining, luminous and big and so, so blue. How on earth can there be such a blue?

"_And the lass that loves a sailor." _She finishes meekly, warbling and horrendously off-key.

"That," Fakir's throat is suddenly very dry. He gingerly takes her comb and tucks it into her hair behind her ear to hold back the unruly strands. Her eyes are still watching him, still embarrassed, and still very, very blue. "Was terrible."

She stares at him for a moment with rosy cheeks before his words seem to process, and then her face flushes in righteous fury. "You _jerk!" _She howls, splashing him full in the face. Fakir reels back, spluttering water, and admittedly he deserves it.

She does not speak to him until the tide comes in and they return to the ship, and even then it's a tense silence until night falls. The crew is asleep except for Fakir, who sits between the rails of the ship to keep Ahiru company. She still refuses to talk to him, embarrassed by his earlier critique and angry at his insensitivity. Usually he'd take this break from her incessant chatter to be a welcomed relief, but her icy silence sits uncomfortably in his stomach, and he uncharacteristically is the first to speak.

"I was serious. Your singing voice is bad. Really bad. You're so off-key it's actually painful." He starts, and judging by her face, it is a poor one. But he continues, because the fluttering bird in his chest has refused to calm since he heard her. "But I never said I didn't like it."

Ahiru stares up at him in disbelief. "You…You _like_ my singing?"

He's shocked, too. "Yeah. It reminds me of my mother. Couldn't carry a note to save her life." He pauses when he hears her huff. The sun has set and the clouds conceal the moon, and for a while he can't make out her face from the dark waves of the water beneath them. But he knows she's there, so he continues. "I always liked listening to her, though."

She does not make a sound, and all he hears for a stretch of time is the rolling of waves and the creaks of the wooden planks beneath him until he thinks that maybe he'd been mistaken and had driven her away, but then he hears it.

And just like before, it starts off softly.

_"__The moon on the ocean, was dimmed by a ripple, affording a chequered delight…"_

Fakir reclines on the deck to listen to her, and thinks of the irony of how, out of all of the mermaid songs he's heard, this is the one that gets him.


	12. Understanding

**Written for zeifure on tumblr.**

**Rating: T**

**Genres: Romance**

* * *

Ahiru knows that people look them and wonder.

He's tall and brooding and almost absurdly handsome with his dark hair and olive skin and green, green eyes. The prodigy alumnus of Kinkan Academy's ballet division, best-selling author of endearingly odd, not-quite-fairytales. He's making a name for himself with his own scarred, calloused hands, and people are taking notice.

Age has only brought Fakir good things: At twenty-six he stands tall with broad, squared shoulders and a sharpened jaw that commands admiration. His hair has grown longer and his voice has grown deeper, and despite the occupational shift he looks every bit the valiant knight that he'd striven to be as a teen.

It's enough to make people look, and it's when they look that they inevitably see her dawdling beside him: still short and still slim and still freckled and still startled by her own limbs. Her hair still commands just as much attention at twenty-two as it did at thirteen, despite the fact that she wears it in a much more tamed bun, and her voice still rasps as if she's not quite over a cold. Her dancing has made leaps and bounds but she's still short on grace, and her eyes have yet to lose their childish, dewy shimmer.

Ahiru knows that they look, and knows what they wonder. And she supposes that if she were to glance them on the street that she too would be a little perplexed at the sight of them. But it's a hard perspective to truly _understand_ when she knows the way he looks at her from across the room. These people don't know the feel of Fakir's fingers tangling gently with hers as he pulls her through a crowd at the market or the protective press of his hand on the small of her back.

How can they know if they don't know of the scar on his hand, of the story they once rewrote? How can they comprehend it when they don't know of the years by the lake and the tears and frustrations and their ultimate triumph? Even more simply, how can they understand them when they've never heard the comfortable quiet that settles over them after dinner, when he's curled beside her with a book by the fire? How can they possibly understand when they've never seen him take her gently by the hand and dance to the sound of the rain on the windows?

She is the only one who knows the silk of his hair and the smell of ink and burning wood that forever lingers on his skin. No one but her knows the gossamer beat of his heart beneath her ear, no one but her knows what it feels like to have the mist of his breath fan across her neck as he pulls her tighter. The words that are whispered between each other's lips as they sway to music that only they know are their secret.

These things are hers and hers alone, and it's because of these things that Ahiru knows but does not dwell. Instead, she simply raises his hand to her lips and breathes.


	13. Mermaid, 2

**Prequel to Chapter 11, "Mermaid".**

**Rating: T**

**Genres: Action, Comedy, Adventure, AU**

* * *

Fakir clutches the grip of his sword tightly, knuckles bleached white against his sun-tanned skin. He can hear girlish chatter echoing from around the bend in the cove, and he takes a steadying breath of salt air as he creeps ever closer.

He peers around the bend and it's exactly what he thought: A girl basking in the shallows of an inlet, speaking animatedly with a small flock of seagulls. Her long strawberry hair floats around her in dampened tendrils, curled and waved from the salt of the sea and the warm summer breeze. He waits, breathes in the smell of low tide and sun-warmed sand as his jadeite eyes fix on the shimmering waves of the pool by her waist. At first he fears it's a trick of the light, but then Fakir sees it again:

A flicker of a long tail, pearl white and orange scales glittering like diamonds in the streaks of morning sunlight.

He wastes no time in striking.

"Where is he?" Fakir roars, voice booming off of the rock walls like a roll of thunder. The mermaid shrieks and the gulls go flying in a mess of squalls and feathers, and he takes the distraction as a chance to approach.

She dives into the pool in a futile attempt to escape, but the water has been blocked off from the sea until the next high tide. She must realize the precariousness of her situation, because she desperately starts to try and climb over the sand dunes and rocks separating her from the open sea.

Fakir leaps into the shallow pool, wading over to her with a snarl. He grabs her shoulder with his free hand and spins her around to face him.

She's not the seductive vixen that he's heard discussed over pints of ale in the galley of ships and the beaten-up bars of salty taverns, but she's still striking with her gently freckled nose and wide doe eyes. Fakir can tell by the stormy blue of her irises that he's frightened her, and he can't help but think, _good._

"Where is he?" He demands again, squeezing her shoulder. The mermaid looks up at him with those dewy eyes, curled in upon herself in terror at the sword that gleams in his other fist. When she does not respond, he shakes her. "_I said where is he?!"_

"Who?" She finally bursts, voice loud and not at all sultry.

"You know who," Fakir snaps. "Prince Siegfried! I saw one of your kind lure him into the sea just the other night!"

The mermaid's eyes widen and her brow furrows in confusion, and Fakir feels his patience wearing thin. But suddenly a look of horror crosses her face, and she whispers a terrified, "_Oh no!"_

"You know something, don't you? _Tell me_!" Fakir barks.

The girl snarls back, blue eyes sparking to life as she gives him a rough swat of her tail. She's not particularly strong, but it's enough of a surprise to throw Fakir off-balance. She uses the opportunity to hurriedly swim to the other side of the pool and scramble up onto the land, dragging herself across the sand. He begrudgingly admires her tenacity, but honestly he can't fathom how she thinks that she can escape him _on land._ He runs a hand through his now-wet hair, and climbs out of the pool.

She's making shocking progress, scrambling across the sand towards the edge of the water, but he can tell that the sand is hot and uncomfortable against her scales. He scoops her up and throws her over his shoulder. She shrieks again, thrashing about in his arms as he carries her back to the shallow tide pool. Her long golden tail swats at him furiously, and he hisses in pain when her tail collides with his nose.

"Let go of me!" She shouts angrily. "Let _go!"_

"Gladly," He deadpans, dropping her unceremoniously into the water. She comes up spluttering, whipping her long hair out of her face with a wet _slap_ against her back.

"You jerk!" She protests, straightening it out to properly cover her form again. Fakir glowers down at her in aggravation.

"You're welcome, you moron." He sneers, rubbing his still-sore nose. "Honestly, did you really think that you could get to the water by crawling across the sand? You're a complete idiot."

"I could have made it," She pouts, crossing her arms. She swims towards the far end of the pool, and Fakir can tell from the stiff set of her shoulders that it's because she doesn't trust him. Good call. He fixes his grip on his sword.

"Now tell me what you know. You _do_ know the prince, don't you?"

The mermaid is silent, staring defiantly at the far wall. Fakir rubs his temples. "Don't make me come back in there after you."

"Why should I tell you anything, you big jerk?" She hisses.

Fakir's eyebrow twitches. "You're not exactly in a position to be putting up a fight, you know. I'd just tell me what I want to know, or it won't end well for you."

"How so?" She presses.

Fakir nods towards his sword, and back to her. "You really want me to say?"

"You wouldn't," The mermaid says, and it sounds surprisingly unlike a challenge so more as a fact.

Fakir scowls, holding up his sword to her. "How do you know what I would and wouldn't do?"

And then the mermaid does the most peculiar thing: She swims towards him slowly, aquamarine eyes never leaving his own. When she's close enough she pulls herself up from the water, and Fakir takes a step back at her advance with a sudden self-consciousness that makes him scowl. But she makes no move to follow, merely staring into his own eyes before making a decisive nod and falling back in, floating around leisurely as if he _wasn't_ brandishing a sword with the intent to use it.

"H-Hey!" He calls, angry. "What was that?"

"Just making sure that I was right. And I am. You wouldn't _actually_ hurt me." She says, entirely too cocky for his own liking.

"And just how do you know that?"

"You may be a big jerk, but you have nice eyes."

Fakir is taken aback, startled and a touch more than annoyed at just how sure she seems to be of this. He's a knight, dammit, and he should be taken _seriously._

"_Nice _eyes or no, I won't hesitate to use this if you don't tell me the information I'm looking for." He threatens, pointing his sword at her. But she merely scoffs at him, twirling around in the water like she's not at the business end of sharpened steel held by a man with waning patience. He growls. "Dammit, _answer me!"_

"Nah." The mermaid replies, continuing about her not-business.

His pride wants him to simply be rid of her, but his gut nags at him something fierce to hone in his temper and wait. Fakir curses and finally sheathes his weapon and sits cross-legged at the edge of the water. "Fine. But I'm not leaving you alone until you tell me what you know." He scowls.

She looks up at him with those big blue eyes, face half-submerged, and the corners of her lips quirk up above the water in an irritating smile. "See? I knew you wouldn't hurt me."

"Don't tempt me," Fakir sneers.

* * *

It's another seven hours before the tide comes in, and Fakir is close to pitching a fit. The mermaid—Ahiru, he'd learned is her name—is entirely unhelpful in virtually every aspect. She answers every question with either a "no" or an even more frustrating "I don't know," and he's at his breaking point. He's wasted an entire day interrogating a mermaid that he's come to learn hasn't even had contact with others of her kind for _months_, and he can feel the sunburn searing on his neck and ears. It's nothing he hasn't dealt with before, what with being on the seas most of his life, but it's still enough to sully his already foul mood.

Fakir honestly doesn't know why he's bothering. Ahiru has given him no relevant information; actually it feels as though he's _losing_ intelligence by indulging her in conversation. But he's held his fair share of interrogations, and his instincts have yet to lead him astray. It's only a matter of time until she slips on _something_.

"So," Fakir drawls, watching her tail flicker lazily in the shallow green waters. "A clownfish. Fitting."

Ahiru puffs her cheeks in offense. "And what's wrong with clownfish, huh?"

"Obviously something if you took so much offense in my stating the obvious."

She squints at him, mouth tugging down in a sharp line. "I don't like you very much."

"Believe me, the feeling is mutual." Fakir runs his handkerchief down the length of his blade again, polishing it to a gleaming shine. He holds it up to examine it in the sunlight and fights to keep a satisfied smirk off of his face when the glint hits her in the eyes. "If you would just tell me what I'd like to know, I'd leave you alone and we could both forget this entire miserable encounter."

"Please," Ahiru snorts. "As if I'm actually going to tell you about Ru—"

She slaps a hand over her own mouth, eyes wider than china plates. Fakir's own eyes glint dangerously from behind his bangs.

"Tell me about…._what?_"

For a moment she looks nothing short of a frenzied panic. She tries to recover with a smile and a laugh but it falls miserably short. "About—about _ruuuuh…_tever it is you're looking for, aheheh…"

Fakir slowly rises and steps into the pool. His fury is a thinly veiled miasma, quiet and intimidating as he stalks up to her like a wolf cornering a sheep.

"Were you just about to say _Rue?_" He demands lowly.

This startles her so much that it seems to slip before she can think. "You know Rue?"

"I know that the Prince kept mentioning something about a Rue before he disappeared," Fakir says, voice venomous. "So it's this Rue who's taken him, huh? I was wrong, I guess you _were_ useful for something."

He turns on his heel and leaves her in the pool. Her shock and confusion is palpable in her voice as she calls out to him, but he does not bother to listen to what she says. Fakir makes to climb out of the pool when a hand closes around his leg.

"What are you doing?" Ahiru asks. She attempts to yank him back into the water, as if she's actually strong enough to do so. He shakes her hand off and climbs out, reaching for his sword.

"Going fishing," Fakir bites, stalking away. He gets maybe three feet away when his feet are pulled out from beneath him and he gracelessly plants his face into the ground. He turns behind him, spitting out sand. "What the _hell are you doing?"_

Ahiru has leapt from the pool and has latched herself to his leg. "You can't!" She shouts at him.

"Watch me!" He shouts back, struggling to his feet. He's able to hobble another foot but Ahiru's grip is a vice around his right ankle and he _can't shake her off, dammit._He drags her across the sand for another few feet but she's heavy and he's at his wit's end.

"_Get off!"_

"_No!_"

"Get off before I _make you_ get off!"

"Then do it!" She challenges, blue eyes like sparks. "I'm not going to let you hurt Rue!"

"And I'm not going to let your little friend kidnap my charge. Now unhand me while you still have _hands_." Fakir threatens.

"Take me with you!"

He pauses at her change of tactics. Of all of the absurd requests.

"And why would I do something as pointless as that?" He says.

Ahiru looks pathetic as he stares down at her; covered in sand and hair in tangles, eyes teary and frustrated. But when her eyes meet his, there's a burning in them. "I can help," She offers. "I'm a mermaid. I know about mermaid things and I know Rue and I can help you find them."

He makes to turn away again, dismissive, but she yanks harder and he nearly stumbles again. "Would you cut that out?" He snaps.

"Rue is the fastest swimmer I know. If you go around with some big ship looking all over the place you'll never find her. I can help," She says. "I can talk to fish. I can talk to birds. I can _help_."

"No thanks." Fakir says. He gives his leg one harsh shake and knocks her off, stalking away.

"_I know how to turn him back!"_

This stops Fakir dead in his tracks. He turns around to where Ahiru lays in the sand, panting and perseverant. He walks back to her, watches as she tries to brush the sand off of her scales.

"And I suppose that you won't be sharing this information without a price?" He sneers.

Ahiru glares at him, and for the briefest moment Fakir respects the steel that settles in the set of her jaw. "I'll help you find the Prince and turn him back, but you can't hurt Rue."

Fakir is torn: On one hand he could walk away and leave her to dry out on the sand, but on the other his instincts are telling him to accept her offer. But can he really trust such an airheaded girl to help him? Can he trust her knowing that she cares for who he's after?

"How do I know that you won't betray me?" He challenges.

"Because you can kill me instead if I do."

Fakir is not expecting this. He wants to deny her, wants to say no, but there's something in the gleam of her eyes that tells him her words are truth. It's a long stretch of silence before he finally extends his hand down to hers to shake it.

"Very well. I will not hurt this Rue so long as you and she cooperate. You are also to listen to my orders and mine alone, understand?"

Ahiru bites her lip but takes his hand anyway and shakes it. Her handshake is firm.

"Very well," He says, and hauls her up and walks her to the shore. She squirms in his hold again, and he is no more gentle than before when he dumps her into the water.

"Meet me in the port at dawn." He says, ignoring her spluttering and complaints "We're shipping out."


	14. Tarts

**Written for anonymous on tumblr. Sequel to chapter 7, "Kiss".**

**The prompt:**

_"Could you do a fic where Ahiru makes Autor and Fakir spend time together? I know it's kind of vague, but I just picture Ahiru trying to make them get along because she thinks it's important for Fakir to spend time with a living relative."_

**Rating: K+**

**Genres: Comedy, Fluff**

* * *

It's been twenty-two minutes since either of them have said a word, and Fakir is uncomfortable.

Silences are not something that Fakir finds particularly unpleasant in themselves; in fact they're often a welcomed thing, being very few and far between what with his chatterbox of a roommate's recent transformation. But this particular silence is laced with insinuations that Fakir is none too fond of. He turns away to look out the window, chin perched on his fist.

The quiet ticking of the grandfather clock on the far side of the room is pronounced in their pause, and Fakir glances irritatedly at his lunch companion when he takes a loud sip of his tea.

"So," Autor starts, and just by his tone Fakir can already tell that he isn't going to like where this is going. "You still haven't told her, have you?"

Fakir glares at him from the corner of his eye. "Don't you have somewhere to be?" He snaps.

"Not at all. I'm free as a bird until two o'clock. I made sure I left ample room in my schedule for your…_**guest's**_…_generous_ invitation. "

Fakir glowers. Of all of the pointless, moronic things Ahiru has talked him into, this is by far the worst. How on earth she got him to agree to lunch with his cousin, he will never begin to understand. Something about the '_importance of family_' and _'quality time'_ or some other equally frivolous nonsense. But however she managed to actually do it, Fakir now finds himself host to his only, persnickety relative.

The clock's ticking grows significantly more pronounced.

"Well whatever my _guest_—" The word feels strange on his tongue, and it makes his scowl deepen. "—has told you, I would encourage you to make your exit soon. After all, you more than anyone would know that I've got a deadline coming up."

"Don't I," Autor drawls, sipping his tea—Drosselmeyer's preferred blend. Fakir doesn't know how Ahiru even knew what kind of tea his cousin drinks, or where she even got it from, but then again she is not someone who he wishes to look at too closely at the moment. "And it's precisely for this reason why I'm glad that duck of yours—"

"Her name is Ahiru," Fakir cuts in.

"—invited me over." Autor gestures to the stack of papers on the table; Fakir's latest works. "Your writing has been abhorrent lately."

"You're too kind," Fakir deadpans.

"I'm serious. You're not going to sell a single copy if you keep it up with this half-hearted drivel."

The table clatters when Fakir hits it while crossing his legs. "Well, what do _you_ suggest, then?"

The man reaches over the small sandwiches on the table and pours himself another cup of tea from the teapot sitting between them. "I suggest that you hurry up and find an end to this story."

"An end?"

"Yes, an end." Autor says. "Everything you've written since your duck—"

"_**Ahiru**_."

"—turned human again has been the same mindless, sappy rubbish. Every single bit of writing you've turned out is half-finished: the girl is back to normal, and her hero is sitting there like a petulant toddler. So you've got a transformation, the curse is broken. Now what? You need to figure it out. Nobody wants to read about your ineptitude, Fakir."

His face is scalding hot from offense and acute embarrassment.

"So what would _you_ have me do, then, if you're such an expert?" Fakir scowls.

"Well first, I would have you quit being such a baby and tell her so you can write a proper ending to this story. You've done it before, you can do it again." Autor leans back, and after a moment a small grin cracks across his sober face. "Second, I would have you cut that mop you call hair."

"Would you look at that," Fakir hisses, completely aware that the chime of the clock only announces the time to be one-fifteen. "_Time for you to leave._"

* * *

After he shows Autor to the door with the placating promise of finishing his manuscript to acceptable standards, Fakir notices Ahiru making her way down the street.

"Oh, hello, Autor!" She chirps excitedly when she spots their departing guest at the gate.

Autor turns around and gives a curt nod. "Ahiru," He greets. "Thank you again for your invitation."

Ahiru's blue eyes blink in surprise. "You're leaving already?"

"I'm afraid so. I have a previous commitment that I must be seeing to." Autor turns to Fakir with a sly grin, glasses glinting in the afternoon sun. Fakir fights the urge to grimace. "Fakir, I trust that you'll have that manuscript finished for me soon, yes?"

"Of course," He responds, teeth clenched. "You should be leaving now, yes?"

"Quite." With one last nod to Ahiru and one last smirk toward Fakir, the young man is off.

"That's too bad that he had to leave so soon," Ahiru frowns, balancing the large basket of groceries in her hands.

"Too bad, indeed." Fakir grumbles, herding her inside before closing the door with one last glare down the now-empty street.

* * *

The two enter their cottage, making their way to the kitchen to put the groceries away in the cupboards. Fakir is busy storing the vegetables in the ice box while Ahiru prattles on about the marketplace. There's not much left to put away when Fakir turns back to check the basket, but there's a little white box done up in string. He picks it up, recognizing it as a pastry box.

"Oh, that's from Miss Ebine's! I thought I'd pick up some sweets for after your lunch with Autor, but I guess we won't be needing them." She looks at him over her shoulder while she stands on her tiptoes to put the bread away on the shelf above the counter. "So, how did it go?"

"Fine," Fakir answers, placing the pastries on the counter beside her. He does not elaborate, electing to instead watch Ahiru's strawberry braid sway with her efforts to reach the top shelf. He becomes enamored with the way she bites her tongue and the determined scrunch of her freckled nose.

"That's great! I'm really glad that you agreed to have him over," She says, straining to reach such a tall shelf with her small stature. "After all, I think it's important to spend time with your fa—" She's cut off when Fakir materializes behind her, back pressed to his chest as his form encompasses her like a shroud. He plucks the loaf of bread from her hands and replaces it on the shelf easily. She turns around and looks up at his face, her own flushed a pretty pink, and Fakir hears Autor's words play in his head.

_'Hurry up and find an end.'_

Ahiru's watching him with wide cerulean eyes and that's it, he gives up. He used to be a knight, a protector, a man who helped to end a story and give it a happy ending.

"Fa—_Fakir_?" Her squeak is surprised and embarrassed, and Fakir can't help but inhale the scent of her hair as his lips linger on her forehead. She's warm and smells of sunlight and lemon tarts, and he's lying to himself if he thinks that the ending as is, is happy enough.

He pulls away, pressing his forehead shyly to hers. She doesn't pull away, which he will take as a good sign, although it still takes him a moment to muster the gumption to look her in the eye.

"I wrote a story," Fakir says, and his face is close to setting itself on fire. "That's how I turned you back. To a human, that is."

"Wait, so that night, you…" Ahiru blinks once before the realization of his actions dawns on her and her face flushes a deep red.

_"QUA?!"_

* * *

Autor finds the manuscript in the mailbox the next morning. He gives it a small flip through to see if his eccentric cousin had kept true to his word and sure enough, there is a proper (_if not cliché_) happy ending with the princess and hero living happily ever after. What surprises him, however, is the presence of a small note on a scrap piece of paper tucked between the last two pages written in familiar, messy scrawl:

_'Lunch Tuesday, 1pm—bring tarts.'_

Autor grins.

Now if only he can make that fool get a haircut.


	15. Coffee, 2

**Written as a tribute on tumblr to lyriette/dreamicide's fanfic "Hot for Teacher" on AO3.** **Part of the College AU; same universe as Chapter 2, "Coffee"**

**Rating: T**

**Genres: Comedy, AU**

* * *

He is screwed.

"I am screwed."

Mytho glances down at him from his seat at the kitchen table, sipping idly on a margarita. The professor is sprawled across the laminate tile, feet elevated on a chair, sipping on a lukewarm beer. Fakir hates beer. It looks like piss and tastes like sewer water, but at least when he's drinking it he can focus on his hatred for _that_ instead of his hatred for himself. He finishes it off in three long chugs, and waves his hand towards Mytho for another.

"You are screwed," Mytho agrees, handing him a new one from the twelve pack on the table.

"Did I tell you that she gave me a valentine? A valentine. It was this stupid little yellow paper duck with a lollipop and I kept it. I kept it." Fakir groans and runs a hand down his face in misery. "_Why did I keep it?_" He whines.

The room feels hot, but the floor feels cool on his back. He pops the cap off of the bottle and relishes in its coldness despite the uncomfortable sensation of carbonation burning down his throat.

"Why, indeed." Mytho says airily.

Fakir opens an eye to glare at his best friend. Mytho meets his glare with a look of barely-veiled mirth, and it makes Fakir want to flick the cap at him. "You are incredibly unhelpful, you know that?"

"So you've told me before."

"I'm serious, Mytho. This is a problem. A _huge_ problem."

"Not as big of a problem as we'll have when Rue comes back and sees you drunk on our kitchen floor. You know she still hasn't forgiven you for that B, right?"

"Okay first of all, I'm not on the floor because I'm _drunk_, I'm on the floor because your apartment is hotter than the seventh ring of Hell. If you're cold, put on pants." Fakir snaps. "Second of all, her argument was terrible in that essay. If she wanted an A, she should've read the literature more closely. Seriously, who the hell would ever argue that Romeo and Juliet had a functional relationship? Do you realize how many people ended up dead over those two?"

"I feel like that's a matter of opinion, Fakir. There's a reason why it's considered by many to be one of the greatest romantic pieces of all time."

Fakir scoffs. "Romeo &amp; Juliet is not a romance, it's a _tragedy_. The fact that it's regarded as such a romantic piece just goes to show how many morons inhabit the earth."

At the mentioning of morons, Fakir groans again. "Mytho, what am I going to do?"

"About what?"

Fakir makes to claw at his hair. "_About the fact that I'm attracted to one of my students!_" He shouts.

"Why is this so upsetting? There's not a terribly large age gap between you two. Besides, she won't be your student much longer, right?"

"That's not the point! The point is that this is _obscenely_ inappropriate and could cost me my _job_."

Mytho hums, taking another sip of his margarita.

"Well, would it be worth it?"

Fakir swallows another sip of beer. "Would _what_ be worth it?"

"Would Ahiru be worth it?"

Fakir pauses, then turns his head away. "No."

"You're lying, Fakir."

Fakir sits up, scowling. "I am not! Nothing is worth losing my job over. You know how hard I worked to get this job. I am not getting fired my first year over some idiot who thought that _Animal Farm_ was a _children's tale_."

He takes another disgruntled swig of his rapidly warming beer. The room feels even hotter than before, and if he weren't in the middle of an existential crisis he'd get up and open the window to let in some of the cool March air. Maybe even rip out the thermostat while he's at it because _who the hell keeps their heat on 80 degrees_, but for now he settles with lying back down on the cool tiled floor to continue wallowing in his own self-pity.

Mytho stands and goes to make himself another drink. "I think that you should go for it."

Fakir stares at him incredulously. "No. _No more tequila for you_, because you are _clearly_ drunk if you think that my dating a student is even a remotely good idea."

Mytho ignores him and continues to pour more tequila in the blender. "But why is it so inappropriate? If you simply wait until she's no longer in your class it should be alright, no? You'd both be two consenting adults with no conflict of interest."

Fakir strains to talk over the roar of the blender. "It doesn't matter if she's in my class or not, she's still a student and I'm a professor. As long as she goes to this school, it's against the code of conduct. I'd lose my fellowship, my credentials, everything."

"So just wait until she graduates. That's only another year, yeah?"

"You say it like it's that easy. I shouldn't even be _considering this_!"

Mytho shrugs. "Why not? I'm sure she'd be more than happy to wait."

Fakir sits up so quickly that his head smashes into the corner of the table. He shouts and collapses again, swearing as he clutches his forehead. Yeah, that's definitely going to bruise.

"Are you alright, Fakir?" Mytho asks.

"No!" He snaps. "I'm at the risk of losing my job, this beer that you bought tastes like actual sewage, my head is _pounding_, and I think—"

Fakir abruptly cuts himself off. No. No. He is not even going to think of going down that road right now, because saying it out loud means that it is real and there is not enough booze in the world to deal with **that** revelation.

"You think what?"

Fakir shakes his head, scowling. "I think that I'm not _nearly_ intoxicated enough to finish that train of thought."

Mytho blinks, and simply holds out his drink to Fakir in silent offering.

"Get that away from me," He hisses, "And would you **_put on some pants_**?"

"But you said-"

"I know what I said. And now I'm telling you to drop it."

"Drop what?"

Fakir freezes like a deer in headlights, and the room shoots up another ten degrees when he sees Rue and Ahiru standing in the kitchen's doorway. Rue looks like she has just eaten an entire lemon in one bite, and Ahiru looks just as shocked and mortified as he feels. They must look like quite the sight: a pantsless Mytho clutching a margarita while kneeling next to a disheveled Fakir, who is sprawled across the floor like one of the several empty bottles of beer scattered around him.

"Professor Lohen?" Ahiru squeaks. "What are you doing here? And oh my _gosh what happened to your __**head**__?!_"

The prettiest blush spreads across her freckled cheeks and Fakir feels the urge to smash his head against the table again. Somehow, against all laws of physics and basic biology, Fakir is simultaneously too drunk and too sober to deal with this. So he takes the only course of action that comes to mind: he grabs his jacket, grabs the drink from Mytho's hands, and downs it in one go before fleeing the apartment entirely.


	16. Movie

**Written for princesstuttu on tumblr.**

**The prompt:**

_"Modern AU where ahiru ends up convincing Fakir to watch the Notebook"_

**Rating: K**

**Genres: Fluff, AU**

* * *

"That was stupid."

Ahiru turns to him, incredulous. Her eyes are puffy and red, and she sounds like she needs to blow her nose when she asks him a shocked, "_What_?"

"I said, that movie was stupid." Fakir says.

Ahiru twists herself to face him. "How could you say that?!" She says with outrage, as if Fakir had somehow insulted her. "No matter what, Noah stayed loyal to Allie!_ Even after she had a fiancée_!"

Fakir scowls. "That's my point. That entire movie was so cliché that I was almost bored to tears. I mean, it was obvious that Duke was Noah the entire time."

She stares at him. "_They died in each other's arms_!"

"Like I said, cliché."

Ahiru smacks his shoulder, sniffling. "You're awful, Fakir. You wouldn't know romance if it bit you in your big, stupid butt." She slouches against his side with a pout.

The two settle into silence as the credits continue to roll down the scene. Ahiru snuggles closer to him to stave off the draft in their apartment, and inhales deeply. He smells like laundry detergent and smoke and apples, and is so warm that she feels herself growing sleepy.

Quietly she asks, "Hey, Fakir?"

Fakir looks down at her. "Hm?"

"Will you read to me when we're old?"

Fakir is quiet, and Ahiru thinks for a moment that he is going to make fun of her for asking such a cheesy question, especially after how much he disliked the movie, but then she feels his arm wrap around her shoulders in a gentle embrace. He gives her a soft squeeze.

"Yeah," He murmurs. "Anything you want."


	17. Mermaid, 3

**Written for youknownothingjonsnowisouralways on tumblr. Part of the ****_Mermaid_**** series.**

**The prompt:**

_"mermaid AU where Ahiru saves Fakir from drowning!"_

**Rating: T**

_**Trigger Warning: drowning, vomit**_

**Genres: Drama, AU**

* * *

**[General disclaimer: I am not CPR certified, nor should this fic be used as any sort of model for lifesaving techniques. It is a work of fiction and any CPR techniques mentioned are based on articles found on the vast wonders of the internet. Now, on with the fic!]**

* * *

For twenty-two years she's lived in these waters, but never before has she seen a storm like this.

The boat lurches violently to the left and then to the right, and the crew goes sliding across the planks of the deck like ice. Fakir is firing off commands like bullets at terrifying speeds, face red and eyes squinted against the stinging rain. He's shouting at the top of his lungs, but even then his voice is almost lost beneath the shrieking winds.

Ahiru is holding on for dear life in her dingy, terrified as the water goes sloshing in and out. The rope securing her lifeboat to the deck creaks ominously, and the wood gives a low groan. But she holds tightly to the sides of her little makeshift tank and prays that the boat does not capsize. Her eyes are squinted against the harsh sprays as she seeks out faces and takes a head count.

"Furl the sails! Secure all life lines! We're lying ahull!" Fakir roars, pointing to the mast.

The men aloft frantically work at the lines, but the violent rocking and heavy rain makes it hard to keep their footing. More than once Ahiru nearly cries out when she sees one of the crew slip, only to catch themselves or be caught at the last moment.

"Aport!" She hears Autor cry out from somewhere behind her, but the wind makes it difficult to tell from where. "Captain, Aport!"

But Fakir hears him somehow, and his head swings to the left just in time to spot the massive wave rolling towards them. Fakir turns around and meets her eyes, his own wide with panic as he makes to shout. But there is no time, and the wave cannons into them without any sign of mercy.

Ahiru ducks low in her dingy and braces herself as the wave washes across the ship with a violent burst of power. The boat leans dangerously to the right and this is it, the boat will tip, they'll all go spilling into the sea. But just as suddenly as it hits, the tide recedes and the boat rights itself again.

It takes her a moment to gain her bearings, but as soon as she does, Ahiru can tell something is very wrong. The crew is in an absolute panic, Autor is screaming, and Fakir—ice settles heavily in her veins.

Fakir is nowhere to be seen.

She nearly leaps out of her boat in worry. "Fakir?" She shouts, frantic. "Fakir!"

Autor confirms her fears when she sees him clumsily stumble across the deck to lean over the railings in an effort to spot him. "He went over!" The young bookkeeper yells. "Man overboard!"

But Ahiru is already vaulting herself over the side of the boat, swan-diving into the blackened waters below. She does not hear Autor screaming after her. She cannot hear anything besides the crashing of the waves against the hull of the boat and her own fraught heartbeat.

The waves roar in her ears; deafening, booming, thunderous. Ahiru can't remember them ever being so loud. She screams Fakir's name until she's hoarse. The salt of the water burns her throat and stings her eyes. There is no sight of him, no peek of tan skin amongst the choppy waves of inky darkness. Panic shoots through her like electricity, and she dives.

It's cold.

Ahiru has lived her entire life in the sea, and never once had she felt such a chill. It nearly paralyzes her for a moment, and she has to remind herself to breathe. To swim. To keep her eyes wide despite the needling sensation in the hopes of spotting him. A deep fear winds tight in her gut when the minutes pass with no sign of him. She surfaces.

"Fakir!" She screams, and dives to avoid another monstrous swell. She surfaces again, and forces her voice out beyond the lump in her throat. "Fakir, where are you?"

"Ahi—!"

A surge of hope strikes her. It's barely a whisper against the screaming gales, but she hears him.

"Fakir!" She shouts, spinning wildly. The waves are a jagged, swirling mess that make her dizzy, but in a stroke of brilliant luck she sees the familiar form of the captain slumped over a stray barrel. He's disoriented and struggling to stay afloat, but he's alive.

"Fakir, hang on!" She yells, plowing through wave after wave to get to him. It feels like forcing her way through stone, and more than once she's thrown off course by the savage currents. It's as if the faster she swims, the faster Fakir drifts away, and she's sent into a panic when another wave rolls over them. She's knocked away by the swell.

Ahiru breaks the surface, his name ripping from her throat. She sees no sign of Fakir anymore, and her heart leaps to her throat when she spots the barrel he had been clinging to bobbing like a cork amongst the waves. She dives again, fearing the worst.

It is dark, but it is quieter. It's an almost jarring difference, being above water with the shrieking winds and rumbling waves, but below it's as if the world has gone silent. She can hear echoes of the water cresting and falling, but it is merely a dull thrum in comparison. It allows her to gain her wits, to focus.

She searches for several minutes, each moment that goes by further fueling her anxiety. She sees nothing, and it scares her. Humans can't survive very long without air; even the most experienced of swimmers can only hold their breath for one or two minutes at the very best, and she's now ticking upwards of two. What if he—_no_, she thinks furiously. She refuses to accept that as an option. Ahiru pushes herself to swim faster. _Please, Fakir,_ she thinks to herself, _please hold on a little longer!_

Out of the corner of her eye she spots something, and her heart nearly stops when she sees Fakir drifting through the water, motionless. She races towards him and maneuvers his arm around her shoulders, and makes her way to the surface.

They break through, but she does not hear Fakir take a breath. He's ashen and cold to the touch, and she knows that she's on borrowed time. But Ahiru does not see the ship anywhere, and she grows desperate.

They float there amongst the calming waves, Fakir a dead weight. She feels herself growing tired as well from the surge of adrenaline, but she knows she can't give up.

"Please Fakir, hang on," She begs him.

Her eyes rove the waters for some sign of help. does a double take when she spots what look like trees, and nearly cries with relief when she realizes that she didn't imagine it: about a hundred yards off is a small island, more like a strip of rocks and sand with a dusting of pine trees, but it's land and it's solid and it's somewhere they can wait out the rest of the storm.

Ahiru struggles to swim with Fakir draped over her, but she manages to get to the beach. She drags him up onto the sand and lays him on his back, panic-stricken as Fakir has yet to make a sound. She holds her hand to his mouth and a wave of nausea hits her when she doesn't feel him breathing.

She'd seen him do this before—resuscitate someone, that is. It was a few weeks ago when one of the greenhorns had gone overboard. Fakir had wasted no time diving in after him, and revived him right on the main deck as soon as they were hauled up. So Ahiru mimics what she had seen Fakir do: First, she checks his pulse. With relief, she feels a faint thrumming beneath her fingers. Then, she leans his head back, opens his mouth, pinches his nose, takes a breath, and presses her mouth to his. She does this twice before pressing down on his chest in the manner he had taught her, and repeating.

"C'mon Fakir," Ahiru says, tears beading in her eyes. He's terribly pale, as pale as she's ever seen him, and his lips are ice. But she feels his pulse, however weakly, and refuses to allow it to stop.

She breathes into his mouth again. The rain has calmed to a steady drizzle, and the ocean no longer looks so stormy. But Fakir has yet to breathe, and grief threatens to make her crack. But Ahiru is nothing if not determined, and continues until miraculously, he takes a breath.

Fakir coughs up more water than Ahiru would think the sea could hold, and gasps.

"Fakir!" Ahiru cries with relief.

He coughs violently again, turning away to vomit more sea water. Ahiru nearly leaps on top of him, but restrains herself as his malachite eyes finally open. They're bleary and dazed, but Ahiru had almost been certain that she'd never see these eyes again. This time she allows the tears to fall.

"_Ahiru_?" Fakir manages weakly. His voice is hoarse, and he coughs again.

"Don't talk," She says, placing a hand on his cheek. He leans into it, sighing. She smiles. "I thought you died."

Fakir continues breathing heavily, but he shakes his head. He manages to move his hand to hold hers on his cheek. It's cold and shaking, and Ahiru feels fresh tears stream down her face. Carefully, she leans over to press her forehead to his. His breath tickles her cheeks, and her heart threatens to crack her ribs.

"You scared me," Ahiru laughs weakly, but it's mostly nerves. To think of how close she had come to losing him—a fresh wave of relief settles over her, and she starts to cry harder. "Don't scare me like that again!"

Fakir closes his eyes, his breathing now ragged but consistent, and nods. It's very weak, but Ahiru can feel him squeeze her hand.

"Don'…cry…" He whispers. "M'o…k."

"Don't talk, dummy! You nearly drowned!" Ahiru scolds, but she can't help the smile that shines through her tears. She curls herself around him protectively as best she can, and after a moment presses a soft kiss to his forehead. "Just rest, okay? You're safe."

—-

It's almost nightfall when the ship spots them. They had been blown nearly ten miles off course, Autor tells them as soon as they're hauled onto deck.

Fakir is immediately whisked away to the captain's cabin where the ship's medic can properly attend to him, and Ahiru is replaced in her water-filled dingy. For the most part the storm has cleared, with only lingering clouds and far-off rumblings of thunder being the only remaining signs of their horrifying ordeal. Luckily nobody else had been lost, and Ahiru is grateful to hear it.

But it makes her anxious to have Fakir out of her sight. Logically she knows that he'll be much better off now than he was on that island, where he'll be dry and warm and well-cared for, but not seeing him with her own eyes makes Ahiru restless. She flips around in her little boat as much as she can before asking if she can finally swim a few laps around the ship if only to ease her restlessness.

By the third day of her fidgetiness, Autor takes pity on her and arranges for her to be put in a small washtub in his room so she can see once and for all that "_he's fine, see, I keep telling you but you won't listen to me? Then again, nobody listens to me._" It's small and a bit uncomfortable, but she can deal with it if it means seeing Fakir.

As soon as she sees him, there's a sense of solace. He looks small, surrounded by pillows and blankets that she knows he would normally protest, but there's color in his cheeks and a smirk on his voice is still gravelly when he speaks.

"That impatient to see me, huh? Idiot."

Her cheeks flush indignantly, and she reins in the urge to splash him with the water from her little tub. "I was worried, you jerk!" She says.

"Don't go working yourself up over nothing. It's pointless."

"You're not pointless," Ahiru says fiercely, leaning her elbows on the mattress. She hauls herself up to stare him down so he can see how serious she is. "You almost _died_, Fakir. If I hadn't found you when I did…"

A thick lump forms in her throat and she finds it hard to swallow. Suddenly her eyes sting. "Fakir, you could be dead." She says quietly.

"I know," Fakir says, placing a hand on the top of her head. He runs it through her hair and brushes her cheek, and her heart flutters. He's warm.

After a moment he quietly says, "I never thanked you for saving me."

_Seeing you alive is thanks enough_, she thinks. But instead Ahiru wipes at her tears and jokes, "You can thank me by never doing that again."

Fakir brushes a tear away from her cheek with the pad of his thumb and smiles.

"Deal."


	18. Brush

**Written for lyriette on tumblr.**

**The prompt:**

_"preparations"_

**Rating: K+**

**Genres: Fluff, Romance**

* * *

It's become their evening routine: every night as he sat writing at his desk, Ahiru would come padding into his room clad in her pale blue nightgown, her hairbrush in hand. She'd sit quietly on the foot of his bed, legs criss-crossed as she undid her braid and begin to brush her long, strawberry hair in measured strokes. She would hum sometimes, making up little nonsense melodies to the time of his quill's scratching, but often they sat in contented silence.

One night he heard her struggling with a particularly stubborn knot, so wordlessly he stood from his writing and took a seat behind her, gently tugging the brush from her hands. Then he began to work out the knot with a tender care, careful not to pull too hard at the long strands. Her hair felt like silk in his hands, sweet-smelling and soft, and he found himself losing count of the brush strokes as they settled into a peaceful calm.

The next night when Ahiru arrived in his room, he felt a soft tap on his shoulder. She had stood there, sheepish, and had silently offered him the brush. With a small smile, he had accepted the hairbrush and told her to take a seat. And so it goes since; every night Ahiru will come and settle down in her spot at the foot of his bed, and Fakir will settle down behind her, and brush her hair until every knot and tangle are gone.

One particular night, Ahiru makes a thoughtful hum as Fakir pulls the brush through her hair. In honesty he'd gotten the knots out a while ago, but he's come to love the feel of her hair in his hands and so he continues his ministrations purely out of a private selfishness. Ahiru does not complain, however, for the sensation feels delightful.

"Hey, Fakir?" She asks.

"Yeah?" He responds, continuing through with his brush strokes.

She leans her head back to look at him upside-down—her cheeks are dusted a pretty pink, and Fakir is momentarily mesmerized by the way the lamplight dances in her eyes.

"Would you—well, would it be okay if…can I brush your hair?" The blush on her cheeks deepens when his eyes widen a fraction in surprise. "I mean, you brush my hair every night and it always feels so nice and I wanted to pay back the favor."

"Oh," Fakir says. His own cheeks warm slightly. "Um, yeah. I guess it's okay. If you want to, that is."

"I do!" Ahiru exclaims, pleased. "Here, let's switch spots. You come sit where I'm sitting, and I'll sit behind you!"

"Okay."

Ahiru does an awkward half-roll, half-shimmy around him as Fakir scoots himself forward to make room. He hands her the hairbrush. Unsure of what to do with himself then, he begins to pick at the ink beneath his nails.

Delighted little sparks bloom in his chest when he feels her fingers on the back of his neck, gently tugging his hair out from its ponytail.

"Wow," She exclaims, fluffing his hair out. "Your hair is so soft!"

Fakir blushes again. "Um, thanks?"

He's never thought much of his hair before; it's always just simply been there. But now Fakir finds himself overly aware of it: every tug of the hairbrush and pull of her fingers sends pleased shivers down his spine, and he's lulled into a near-trance by counting her brushstrokes. He can't remember the last time he's felt so relaxed.

Quietly, Ahiru begins to hum and Fakir recognizes it as a piece by Chopin. He closes his eyes, soothed by her voice and delicate attentions, and begins to dream of dancing.

She's gotten quite better since turning back into a girl, Fakir muses. It's been several years since the events of the story, but somehow Ahiru had retained most of her knowledge of the basics during her time as a duck and had settled in quite well back at the Academy. Just a few weeks ago she had returned home and excitedly informed him that she was starting pointe classes.

He's been diligent in helping her practice at home, and has yet to miss a single one of her recitals. Ahiru has yet to make it beyond dancing in the back of the corps, but every step she makes is done with such a genuine, radiant joy that Fakir can't be bothered to even glance at the principal dancers. Every time she moves, every time she smiles, he's completely enraptured.

And her actions right now are no different: Fakir leans his head back to look at her, and he feels a warm flutter in his heart. She looks so content with a smile on her face that she probably doesn't even realize is there as she continues to brush his hair in long, even strokes. The lamplight flickers across her cheeks and nose, and Fakir muses for not the first time that Ahiru is beautiful.

After a moment she notices his staring and blushes self-consciously. "Uh, do you—do you want me to stop?" She asks.

"No—you can keep going if you want to," He says.

"Well, I think I got all of the tangles out, so there's not really much left if you want me to stop—"

Fakir leans back, resting the back of his head against her shoulder. He feels her breath hitch, and he closes his eyes. "It's okay," He murmurs. "It feels nice."

"Oh…o-okay," Ahiru says, and Fakir feels satisfied by the pleased sound of her voice. She leans into him, and begins to twirl his hair between her fingers. "Is this okay?"

"Mhm."

"Alright then," Ahiru whispers, and Fakir can hear the smile in her words. She leans her chin on the top of his head and wraps her arms around his shoulders, and Fakir feels a brilliant warmth in his chest. "Hey, Fakir?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

It used to be so hard to smile, but nowadays they come so easily.

"Thank you, too." He says.

He feels the soft press of her lips to the top of his head, and then he hears her hum.

He loves her. He really does.


	19. Coffee, 3

**Written for lyriette on tumblr. Epilogue(ish) to the ****_Coffee_**** Series, and based off of chapter 4 of lyriette's fic, "Hot For Teacher".**

**The prompt:**

_"but imagine professor fakir still keeping that valentine in his desk even when it looks like they'll never get together and years later when they're together and get a place to live together ahiru helps him with unpacking and finds her little duck valentine and is just oh my god you still have this?"_

**Rating: K+**

**Genres: Fluff, AU**

* * *

"Oh my gosh, Fakir, you still have this?"

Fakir looks down at where Ahiru is seated in their dining room, surrounded by a fort of boxes. The movers had just dropped off the last of their things, so they've been trying to sort out which boxes go where. Currently she's digging through a rather beat-up looking cardboard box that he recognizes as his desk things, and his eyes widen when he sees what she's holding up.

"What about it?" He asks her, voice nonchalant. He busies himself with unpacking the glasses and plates so she can't see the blush staining his cheeks.

"I gave this to you years ago," Ahiru says, turning over the little valentine in her hands. The paper has faded from its original canary yellow to a more mellow maize, but the text is still easily readable: 'You drive my heart quackers!' she reads, and it makes her smile. "I can't believe you actually kept it."

Fakir snorts. "Please. I just forgot to throw it out."

Ahiru stands and nudges him with her elbow. "Yeah right," She teases. "You liked my valentine and you know it."

Fakir can't help the small smirk that crosses his face as he puts down a couple of mugs in favor of wrapping his arm around her shoulders. "So maybe I did like that cheesy little duck card." He ventured. "But whatever lollipop you picked out tasted awful."

"You actually ate it?" She laughs.

"No," Fakir grins. "I gave it to Mytho. He loves that sugary junk. I did eat the kisses, though."

Ahiru giggles. "I can't believe you thought I was talking about an actual kiss when I gave those to you. The big bad Professor Lohen getting all worked up over some chocolate."

"Oh, ha-ha. Very funny." He deadpans, leaning his face closer to hers until their noses were touching. "Can you blame me?"

"Nope," She grins, and closes the space between them.

The little card is the first thing they hang on their fridge.


	20. Alone

**Written for lyriette on tumblr.**

**The prompt:**

_"Fakiru: _"Don't go. Please"_"_

**Rating: K+**

**Genres: Hurt/Comfort, Romance**

* * *

She awakens in the middle of the night with a shriek bubbling up her throat, raw and shaken and tinged with the lingering shadows of her nightmare. She sits straight up, gasping for air as she swivels her head from side to side in an attempt to figure out her surroundings. The room is dark, but the smell is familiar: the scent of smoke and fresh-cut wood, and in this Ahiru finds enough comfort to bring herself out of the haze of her dream before curling in upon herself with a choked sob.

_What a terrible dream_, she thinks, shaking. _What a terrible, terrible dream._

She's only been in this room for a few days, but every night it's startling to wake to. She's used to the familiar sights of Fakir's room, the sound of his soft snoring beside her. But she's a girl again, and she can't remain in his room as a girl, so Ahiru must get used to the ambiance of her new bedroom, now. At first she was open to the idea of it, keen even, but after waking up night after night in the same stillness with the same sense of overwhelming loneliness, Ahiru longs for her spot beside him on his pillow.

A knock sounds at her door, and the noise is like a gunshot in the quiet of the room. She jumps, startled, but the voice that follows is a relief in itself so much so that new tears sting her eyes.

"Ahiru?" Fakir says, voice muffled through the heavy wood of her door. "Ahiru, it's me, are you okay?"

Ahiru throws off her covers and stands on shaking legs, pads quietly to the door before tugging it open. Fakir's face materializes in the inky dark of the hallway, dim light shimmering in his concerned eyes. She flings herself into his arms.

He steps back, thrown off-balance by her sudden embrace, but he wraps his arms tightly around her regardless of his confusion. "Ahiru, are you okay?"

"Fakir," Ahiru cries, clinging to his shirt. "Thank goodness, I was so scared! I was running and running and I kept yelling your name but you wouldn't answer and it was so _dark_—and—_and_—"

"_Shh_, it's alright now," Fakir coos, pulling away enough to cradle her face in his hands. He gently wipes her tears away with the pads of his thumbs. "It's alright."

But she can't help it; flashes of her nightmare swirl in her mind like tendrils of smoke, intangible but terrifying. Ahiru recalls the silence, the way all of the light had simply gone out, the bone-deep sense of loneliness that threatened to crack her in half. And the residual fear makes her tremble, makes her cling, makes her cry. She had been alone again, and not even Fakir had found her.

Fakir lifts her effortlessly into his arms and pads back towards her bed before setting her down gently. He settles down beside her, cradling her to his chest as she cries softly against his shoulder. Ahiru is soothed by the gentle circles he traces between her shoulder blades, and breathes deeply. He smells of smoke and ink and apples, and something that's just purely Fakir, and it's enough to quell the gnawing anxiety crawls beneath her skin.

Fakir pushes a strand of hair out of her eyes and tucks it behind her ear with calloused fingers. "It's been a while since you've had a nightmare like this. What happened?" He asks gently.

Ahiru presses her face into the side of his neck and listens to the warm, steady thrum of his pulse. "I couldn't find you," She whispers.

"Couldn't find me?"

"It was really dark, and suddenly I just felt really scared, so I started running and running trying to find somebody, and I kept yelling your name but you didn't answer." Ahiru says, tears welling in her eyes again. "I was—I was all alone."

Fakir tenses against her for a moment before wrapping her tightly in his arms. "You don't have to be scared anymore, I'm right here. And I'll always be right here, remember?" He murmurs into her hair. "I made you a promise, and I intend to keep it."

"I'm sorry," She whimpers, wrapping her arms around his neck. She buries her face in the crook of his neck, embarrassed of her tears."I don't know why—why I got so upset."

Of course he'd never leave her. Fakir had made her a promise, one that he has faithfully kept since the moment he'd made it. But the fear still sits like sediment in her blood, and she can't shake it.

"Don't apologize," Fakir says, stroking her hair. "Never apologize for feeling like this."

"But it's such a silly thing to be scared of!" Ahiru argues, wiping stubbornly at her tears with the back of her fists. "I know you won't leave. And so what, it was only just a dream, anyhow."

Fakir wraps his hand around her much smaller one, pulling it away from her eye so that she can look at him. "Still. I know how frightening dreams can be, irrational or not" He gives her a small, soft smile. "So don't go apologizing for it, idiot."

Ahiru sniffles, and swats lightly at his shoulder. "Don't call me an idiot, you big jerk." But the words are said with fondness, and she curls back against his side with a small smile. "Thanks, Fakir. I feel a little better."

"I'm glad," He says, eyes soft. "Why don't you try getting some sleep, though? It's pretty late."

"Alright," She concedes, crawling beneath her covers. Fakir brushes the hair out of her eyes again with a gentle smile.

"If you need anything, you know where to find me." He says.

"M'kay."

"Goodnight, then," He murmurs, turning for the door.

And for the first moment that the door is shut behind him, Ahiru thinks that she will be okay. But when she hears the quiet click of the doorknob, anxiety swells within her.

"Fakir, wait!" She calls.

The door opens again and Fakir is immediately by her side.

"What's wrong?"

"Don't go," Ahiru pleads, rubbing at her eyes again. "I thought I'd be okay by myself but I miss you and it's scary being all by myself in here and and I just…I just…don't go. Please."

Fakir kneels beside her on the floor, taking hold of one of her hands. He strokes the back of it with his thumb, and the contact is tranquilizing. "I won't. I won't go anywhere." He promises. "I'll stay with you as long as you want me to, okay?"

"'Kay," She sniffles, pulling his hand to her cheek. "Can you stay 'til I fall asleep?"

"Of course."

Fakir climbs onto the bed beside her and props himself up against the headboard, slinging an arm behind her head. He does not release her hand, continuing to rub in steady, soothing circles. Ahiru curls into his side and closes her eyes. He's warm.

"Thank you, Fakir," Ahiru murmurs, and she feels him squeeze her hand.

"Anytime," He whispers, and his voice is the last thing she hears before she falls asleep.


	21. Alone, 2

**Written for crumbsorciere on tumblr. Sequel to Chapter 20, ****_Alone_****.**

**The prompt:**

"_Fakiru,_ "I'm the same, you know"._"_

**Rating: K+**

**Genres: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff**

* * *

She disappears right after dinner. Of course, Ahiru makes every effort to help clear the table and scrub the dishes, but as soon as the last plate is dried she slips away without a word. Fakir does not give chase immediately, however. He knows her well enough to figure where she is, and if anyone can understand the need for alone time, it's him. So he gives her half an hour before he makes his way out the back door.

Sure enough, he spots the ladder propped up against the barn. Fakir makes sure to make enough noise as not to startle Ahiru with his sudden appearance; the last thing he needs is her falling off the roof. He hears her before he sees her.

"Hello?"

"It's only me," Fakir says, lifting his head over the edge of the roof. Ahiru sits with her back to him, silhouetted by moonlight, but he can see the blue of her eyes as she peers over her shoulder at him.

"Oh. Hey, Fakir." She says, turning away. Fakir furrows his brow at her melancholy tone of her voice and makes to sit beside her. "How'd you know I was up here?"

"Well first of all, you left the ladder propped up against the barn. Not very subtle." He teases. "Besides, it wasn't like it was very hard. You don't like walking through the woods at night so the lake was out, and if you were really planning on going somewhere far you would've left a note so Karon wouldn't worry."

Fakir doesn't have to see her cheeks to know that she's blushing. He smirks and nods to the spot beside her. "Mind if I join you?"

She shakes her head and scoots over to allow him some space to sit.

Fakir leans back on his hands and glances at her from the corner of his eye. The moonlight highlights the frown on her face, and it tugs at his heart uncomfortably. He turns his attention back to the sky, following the line of her distant gaze.

"Hey, Fakir?"

He isn't expecting her to be the first to speak. Fakir tries not to betray his concern as he answers.

"Yeah?"

"Do you think the moon ever gets lonely?"

Fakir turns to her, not bothering to hide his surprised expression. "What kind of question is that?"

She puffs her cheeks. "I'm serious! I mean, it's up there all by itself every night." Ahiru turns her attention back to the moon sadly, pulling her knees to her chest. "Wouldn't you get lonely?"

Fakir draws up a knee to his own chest, perching his chin on top of it thoughtfully. "I guess I would." He says after a moment. "But I don't think the moon is as lonely as you think it is."

Ahiru cocks her head towards him, eyes bright. "Huh?"

"I mean, look at all of the stars up there. How could you possibly think the moon is lonely when there are so many stars all around it?"

"But the stars are really far away, aren't they?" Ahiru mumbles, eyes downcast. "I remember you saying something from one of your books about stars being really, really far away."

"That may be so, but maybe that's why stars shine so brightly. So the moon still knows they're there, even when they're far away." Fakir says quietly.

Despite the crisp night air, Fakir feels his cheeks warm. It sounds silly, even to himself, but it seems to give Ahiru some comfort. He sees her shoulders relax a bit, and she shifts closer towards him.

"You really think so?" She asks.

Fakir shifts closer to her as well. He doesn't fight the small smile that settles on his lips. "I do."

They settle into a calm silence again. After nearly half an hour, it is Fakir who speaks first.

"I'm the same, you know."

Fakir doesn't look at her as he speaks, though he can feel her eyes on him. He fights to squash the sudden pang of self-consciousness.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I'm scared of it, too. Of being lonely, or being abandoned." Fakir pauses. He glances at her, eyes soft. "It's a terrible feeling."

Ahiru straightens up, shocked. "You—You feel that way too?"

"Yes, I do." Fakir twists himself to face her, and he's momentarily in awe of how the light hits the curve of her cheek. A fierce, warm affection swells in his chest, and his self-consciousness clears like mist in the heat of the afternoon sun. "Everybody is afraid of being left alone. So don't go beating yourself up over being scared of it too."

"How did you know that I've—?"

Fakir grins crookedly. "Give me some credit. You've been moping around ever since you had that nightmare the other night. And if I don't know you at least that well by now, then I've done a pretty poor job of keeping my promise."

He feels a small surge of accomplishment when he sees her crack a smile, and chuckles quietly when she shifts closer to him and nudges him with her elbow. Ahiru lets her head fall to his shoulder and sighs contentedly.

"Remember what I said the other night, though." He murmurs in the space between them. "I'm not going anywhere. So you don't have to be afraid of that or feel guilty over it, okay?"

"Okay." She says, pressing closer to his side. "Sorry, Fakir."

"What did I just say, idiot? Don't go apologizing for things that don't need to be apologized for."

"Ah, sorry!" Ahiru squeaks, covering her mouth sheepishly. "Ahh, I did it again…"

Fakir sighs, but the sound is an affectionate one. "Moron."

Ahiru giggles, and the sound makes Fakir feel light. "So, you get scared of being alone, too, huh?"

Fakir feels his ears burn, his embarrassment returning full-force. "Well, I said that already, didn't I?"

"You did," Ahiru concedes. "So I guess we're both scared of being left alone."

"Seems like it."

She lifts her head from his shoulders, eyes glittering and wide and filled to the brim with something that makes Fakir's heart do strange things. "Well. If I don't have to be scared of that, then you don't have to be, either."

Fakir quirks a brow at her large grin. "Why is that?"

"Because as long as I have you, then you'll have me! If you promise to stay with me, then it's only fair that I promise to stay with you, right? And that way neither of us ever have to worry about it again!"

Fakir blinks, surprised at how confidently she proclaims this. Then the implications of her words dawn on him, and he blushes furiously.

"Stupid, don't go making promises like that so lightly!" Fakir splutters.

"I'm not making it lightly," Ahiru huffs, cheeks red. "I'm happy with you, Fakir. And I want to stay like that…with you, I mean. If you want me to, that is."

Fakir stares down at her flushed face, taking in the determined yet self-conscious glint in her eyes and the stubborn, hopeful set of her jaw. She means what she says, and Fakir knows from experience that there will be no changing her mind. He sighs in defeat, but it is a battle he is more than willing to lose.

"Idiot," Fakir says as he wraps an arm around her shoulders. "Of course I do."

Ahiru snuggles closer against him, and Fakir rests his chin on top of her head. "So it's a deal, then?" She asks hopefully.

Fakir smiles. "It's a deal."


	22. Mermaid, 4

**Part of the ****_Mermaid_**** series.**

**Rating: K+**

**Genres: Fluff, AU**

* * *

"Hey, Fakir?"

The captain looks up from the maps at his desk and turns to her. They're seated in his study, Fakir perched at his desk while Ahiru lounges in a washtub by the window. They'd managed to find a larger one in the last port they had docked in, and after the whole drowning incident Ahiru prefers to keep an eye on him. Fakir has a terrible habit of overworking himself, and his lungs still haven't completely recovered from the ordeal.

"Hm?" He asks. His reading glasses are perched on the tip of his nose, and Ahiru is momentarily distracted by the way the late afternoon light illuminates his profile. "What is it?"

"Oh, uh." Ahiru pauses and hums, trying to figure out how exactly to word it. "It's a strange question to ask, I guess, and it's okay if you don't want to answer it because it's probably really weird—"

Fakir sighs. "Just ask whatever it is you're going to ask."

Ahiru lets out a squeak, cheeks flushing lightly. "Oh! Um, well…I was just wondering what it's like to have legs."

One of Fakir's eyebrows disappears beneath his bangs. He puts his quill down and turns in his chair to fully face her. "What prompted this?"

"Nothing," She blushes. "I'm just…kinda curious, is all."

"That's kind of a hard question to answer," He says. "That's like me asking you what it's like to have a tail."

"Sorry," She chuckles sheepishly. She scratches her cheek with a finger. "I guess it was a really weird question to ask you."

"Don't be sorry. I'm just trying to figure out how to answer, is all." Fakir says. He recrosses his own legs with a thoughtful expression. "I mean, what exactly is it that you want to know about having them?"

"I don't know. Everything, I guess." Ahiru shrugs. "Like, how do you not fall over when you take a step? How do you know where to put each foot when you walk? And what even are 'sea legs'? Are they different from land legs? And do people really have two left feet?"

"Slow down, moron. One question at a time."

Ahiru sticks her tongue out at him, and Fakir can't fight the small grin on his face.

"To answer your question, it's just how we work. I mean, how do you know how to move your tail? It's instinctual. We've got special parts of our brains that tell our legs how and where to move so that we don't fall. Needless to say not everybody's is as competent as some others' are, but for the most part it's just something everyone learns to do." He smirks. "And as for the whole 'sea legs' thing, it's a turn of phrase. Same thing with 'two left feet'."

"Really?" She asks.

"Really." He says.

"But what do they mean?"

Fakir leans back in his chair, resting an arm on his desk. "Well, people usually aren't used to walking on uneven surfaces, so it's hard for new sailors to walk normally on ships and the like. When they adjust to the rocking and can make their way about, we say they've got their 'sea legs'. And if someone says that you have two left feet, it means you're clumsy. Remember what I said about how some people just aren't as competent as others? This would refer to them."

"Wow. So you guys just know how to do it? Just like that?"

"Pretty much. I mean, children still have to learn how to when they're younger, but for the most part, yes."

"That's amazing." Ahiru looks down at her tail and sighs. "Y'know, sometimes I wish that I could have legs too. Then I wouldn't have to get carried around everywhere. And I could come to the marketplaces with you and Autor and I'd be able to explore and I could go on the beach without drying out and I could dance like those dancers I saw at the beach that one time." She flicks her tail and frowns. "I sure can't do anything amazing like that with my tail."

"Don't talk like that." Fakir scolds her. "You're fine just how you are. You saved my life with that tail, didn't you?"

Ahiru bows her head. "Yeah."

Fakir's voice is gentle, and when she looks up at him she sees that his expression is just as soft. "So don't go around saying things like "i can't do anything amazing" just because you don't have legs." He turns back to his desk so she can't see his face, and begins to scratch away at his map with his quill. After a moment he says, almost hesitantly, "You do plenty of amazing things already, just the way you are."

Ahiru's heart flutters, and she smiles so wide her cheeks hurt. Fakir adamantly refuses to look at her, hunching over exaggeratedly in an attempt to look busy, but she can see that the tips of his ears are bright red and it only makes her smile grow.

"Thank you, Fakir," She says, and she means it.

Fakir still does not look at her but he pauses, and quietly replies, "You're welcome…Now stop asking me ridiculous questions. You're distracting me."

Ahiru squints at him; leave it to Fakir to ruin a moment. She flicks her tail at him, dousing the left side of him in water.

"What the hell was that for?"

"For ruining it!" She says, indignant.

"For ruining what?"

"_The moment!_"

"What are you _talking_ about you moron, I didn't—**_you got my map wet!_**"


	23. Coffee, 4

**Written for the college AU/_Coffee_ series_._**

**Rating: T+**

_**Trigger Warnings: Language, Alcohol, suggestive situations in which nothing suggestive actually happens**_

**Genres: Comedy, AU**

* * *

Fakir revokes his previous statement: He is not screwed.

He's totally fucked.

"Dammit Ahiru, stop squirming around!" Fakir hisses, digging in his pocket for his key while the petite redhead gleefully kicks her legs back and forth. She's draped over his back like a rag doll, and Fakir can feel the warm puffs of her breath against his neck as she giggles in his ear.

Oh, he is so screwed.

"Hey _P'fessor_," Ahiru slurs, and he feels her take a deep breath. In fact he is entirely too aware of the press of her figure against his back, and he has to take a breath of his own to deal with it. "P'fessor Lohen. Y'hair smells so _good_. Like...I dunno, _apples_ or somethin'."

He's going to die.

Focus. _Focus._ Fakir manages to not pass out from mortification long enough to finally fish his key out of his pocket. He's actually somewhat impressed with himself for being able to balance Ahiru long enough to open the door, but then again she weighs about the same as a friggin' peanut so yeah, that actually explains a lot now that he thinks about it.

From the gibberish she's been drunkenly spouting since they'd left the bar Fakir has discerned that she'd been with friends but had somehow gotten separated at some point during the night, which is apparently when some sleazy creep had introduced her to the wonders of a Long Island Iced Tea.

By some twisted sense of fate, (_and by fate he means the colossal cosmic joke his life has now become,)_ Fakir had so happened to be grabbing a drink at the bar after staying late in the office. He isn't usually one to drink, but after grading forty-two midterm papers Fakir had needed bourbon as desperately as he needed air.

He was in the middle of an Old Fashioned when he'd spotted her across the bar: red hair tied up in a bun, perched on a stool and flanked by a greasy looking older man. By the flush on her face she'd clearly been drunk, and by the lascivious grin on the man's face he too had been aware of her inebriation.

He saw the man lean in and whisper something that made her look visibly uncomfortable, and she said something back that he couldn't make out over the din of the bar. Fakir recalls the way his blood had burned in his veins as he watched his hand wander from her shoulder and down the curve of her waist regardless of her discomfort, lower and lower until Fakir nearly leapt from his stool to stop him.

"I would suggest you keep your hands respectively to yourself," Fakir hissed, fingers tightening around the man's wrist.

"The fuck are you?" The man snapped. "Can't you see I'm busy?"

"Prof-Professor?" Ahiru squeaked, spinning around in her stool to look at the two. "What're you doin' here?"

The man turned to him with a scowl. "I suggest you mind your own business, _professor_." He side-eyed Ahiru in a way that made Fakir's skin crawl. It only served to fuel his anger further.

"She _is_ my business," He snarled. "Now back off."

"And if I don't?" The man had challenged.

Fakir didn't even bother to respond before punching the man in the face.

Fakir's knuckles sting from where he'd caught the man's teeth as he wraps his hand around the doorknob. Serves the bastard right, he thinks acidly. At least Ahiru is safe now.

"How did you even get into that bar?" Fakir asks her as he trudges to the into the living room. "You're only twenty. You can't even drink yet."

"_Seeecret," _She says. Her breath tickles his earlobe. Fakir can't handle this.

The redhead still remains latched to his back as he stumbles across the room, snorting and giggling like she's having the time of her friggin' life. He tries to be careful when he deposits her onto the couch but she's been possessed by some sort of demon koala and nearly drags him down with her. Luckily he catches himself on the back of the couch and _oh holy __**shit**__ she is_ _close, way too close, __**waytooclose**_-and nearly falls over the coffee table in his mad scramble to get away from her.

Ahiru flops over onto the arm rest, snorting. Dammit, he should **not** find that cute.

"_Careful_ P'fessor," She sing-songs. "Fallin' isn't fun. I know. I do it a _lot._"

Fakir scowls, face burning as he digs for his cellphone. "I'm fine." _Lies._ "Just give me your phone so I can call your roommates to come pick you up."

Ahiru gasps, blue eyes widening at the mention of her roommates. "Oh _nooo!_ Pike an' Lilie are gonna be so-_hic-_mad!"

Not as mad as _he_ already is, Fakir thinks. What the hell were they thinking, to leave her alone like that? If he hadn't been there to stop that bastard...the thought makes him feel ill. He shakes it off by reminding himself that Ahiru is safe and sound, save for the hangover that she is sure to have in a few hours.

Ahiru reaches down into her shorts pocket, slumping further down into the couch as she does so, and gasps again before saying a very sheepish, "Uh oh."

"Uh oh?" Fakir deadpans. "What's _'uh oh'?_"

"Don' have m'phone," She slurs.

Well, there goes that plan.

Fakir sighs, and reaches for his own phone. "Fine. I guess I'll call Rue and Mytho so at least _someone_ knows where the hell you are and can come get you."

"_Ooooh_, Rue's gonna be even _more _mad!_" _Ahiru squeaks. "She says'm not s'posed to talk t'you."

Fakir pauses in flipping through his contacts and narrows his eyes at her. "_Why_?"

_"Eep!" _Ahiru slaps her hands over her mouth, cheeks bright.

He quirks a brow. "What now?" He sighs.

"M'not s'posed to be talking t'you!"

Fakir just stares at her because _there is no way this is his actually his life right now,_ before turning his attention back to his phone. He finds Mytho's number and dials it.

_"Hi, this is Mytho. I'm sorry I can't answer my phone right now-"_

_"_Dammit," Fakir groans as the voicemail rattles on. He's absolutely useless. "Mytho, it's me. I've got Ahiru here at my apartment. There was an..._incident_...at the bar, and long story short she's currently sprawled across my couch in a drunken stupor. She can't find her phone, so tell Rue to call her roommates or something to come get her. Call me back."

He hangs up and turns back to Ahiru, who is now half-conscious and stretched across the entire length of the couch.

"This is the _best couch __**ever.**_**" **She practically moans, snuggling her face deeper into the cushions. "It's so comfy!" The sound raises the hairs on Fakir's neck, and he strategically absconds to the kitchen because he cannot handle her making those _noises._

He dials Mytho's number again with a little more force than necessary, rapping his fingers on the counter as he waits for him to pick up.

"_Hi, this is Mytho. I'm sorry I can't answer my phone-"_

"You are _the_ most unhelpful human being to ever walk this accursed planet," He growls. "Learn to pick up your phone and call me back."

Fakir hangs up and runs a hand through his hair. This is not his life. This cannot _possibly_ be his life right now. Is this karma for extending the page minimum for that paper on Moby Dick?

"P'fessor," Ahiru calls, and he can hear the nausea in her voice. "I don'-_hic_-feel too good."

Shit.

He looks around frantically for something to bring her so he doesn't end up with puke all over his carpet, and grabs a large sauce pan from near the sink. When he comes back into the living room Ahiru looks as pale as a sheet. Fakir barely has time to hand her the pot before she retches.

He's unsure what to do; he has an overwhelming urge to rub her back but touching is the absolute **last** thing that should be happening. Then again, _Ahiru being in his apartment_ shouldn't be happening, and yet here he is, standing awkwardly next to his student who he may or may not find attractive (_may, __**totally**__ may, who the hell is he even kidding anymore,)_ as she pukes into his sauce pan. So he just awkwardly pats her shoulder while glancing desperately at his phone.

After a few minutes her heaving comes to a stop and her shoulders calm to only minor spasms, and she glances up at him miserably. "M'_sorry,_" Ahiru whimpers.

Fakir panics when he sees tears beading in her eyes. "Why the hell are you crying?"

"Because I puked in your _pot,"_ She wails.

"I'm just glad you didn't puke on my carpet." Fakir says.

"B-But _still!_" She cries. "You're _you_ and you're all cool and grumpy and handsome 'n stuff, and 'm just the stupid girl who puked in your pot. That's so _gross_!"

Fakir momentarily forgets to breathe because _she just called him handsome. __**Ahiru called him handsome**_**. **This is not real life.

"Stop crying!" Fakir snaps, because she's entirely too distracting. He's still so dizzy with shock that it only frazzles him more when he sees Ahiru's bottom lip start to tremble. But his brain is short circuiting and he can't figure out what to do to make her stop, so he just flees once again to the kitchen before he contemplates his ineptitude (_or her lip_) any further.

It takes Fakir a solid three minutes of white-knuckling the counter before he calms down enough to inhale properly. How the hell is he supposed to deal with this? It was bad enough when she was simply giggling on his couch in that stupidly adorable manner of hers, but she just called him handsome. He now possesses the knowledge that Ahiru finds him at least somewhat physically appealing. Shit. This is not information that he should have.

Fakir frantically dials Mytho's phone again, and nearly rips his hair out when it goes to voicemail again. How hard is it to pick up a phone? Probably about as hard as putting on a pair of pants, he thinks vexingly.

He's doomed.

"You utterly useless _moron_." Fakir hisses. "I hate you and your complete inability to _pick up your damn phone_. I am not screwing around with you, Mytho. If you don't call me back soon, so help me I will not hesitate to smash that precious camera of yours into a thousand different pieces."

He slams his phone down on the counter and cradles his head in his hands. What is he going to do? He can't very well just _leave_ her in the living room to cry all night. Well he can, but the thought of Ahiru crying makes his gut knot itself uncomfortably. Which, come to think of it, also explains how he caved to her requests for tutoring. He's a wimp.

In hopes of making up for his complete lack of comforting skills, Fakir settles to scavenge in his cupboards for a sleeve of crackers and a glass for some water. He carries them in and sets them on the table in front of her wordlessly, ears burning.

Ahiru stares at the peace offerings and blinks, eyes dazed.

"Drink this and eat some of the crackers. They're probably stale, but they should help you feel better."

Ahiru turns her confused gaze up towards his face before hesitantly reaching for a cracker and taking a bite. She chews thoughtfully, and then ventures a meek, "You're not mad at me?"

Fakir sighs, and as pissed off as he is at the universe, he only feels a tug of affection stir in his chest for her. She's got crumbs on the corner of her mouth, and he fights the small smile threatening to show on his face. "No, I'm not mad. So stop being upset, moron."

"M'not a moron, ya jerk."

Fakir gives in and smirks a bit; leave it to Ahiru to still bicker with him even when hammered. He watches her roll over to her side for easier cracker access, then glances at the clock: 1 in the morning. He sighs again.

"I guess it's safe to say you'll be sleeping here tonight." He says, and tires very hard not to think of all of the other various scenarios that this statement implies. "I'll go grab you some bedding." He'd offer to take the couch, but there's something about the idea of Ahiru sleeping in his bed that feels terribly intimate and Fakir doesn't think that his already-shot nerves can deal with that. Besides, she seems content enough on the couch.

"M'kay," She says quietly, nibbling on another cracker. She takes a sip of water, and it seems to perk her up a bit. "Y'know, I don' get why people don' like you. Y'may be a grump, but you're actually super nice." She slurs, waving her cracker at him. "Plus y'got a _really_ nice butt."

Fakir nearly chokes on his own spit, which must raise some concern in her alcohol-hazed mind, because Ahiru lifts her head to inquire if he's okay. The answer is _absolutely __**not**__, __**you just complimented my butt how the hell am I supposed to respond to that**__, _but he just coughs out a strangled, "M'_fine_," and nearly trips over his feet running to the sanctuary of the bathroom.

He slams the door shut and flips the lock and stumbles over to the sink, face scalding. Fakir turns on the cold water and splashes his face. _This is not really happening to me, _Fakir thinks, _nope, I fell asleep grading papers. I'm still in the office and when I wake up I will be alone and when I go home there will not be a drunken student on my couch._

Fakir is so on-edge that he nearly yelps when he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. He pulls it out and sees Mytho's name and nearly cries with relief.

"Where the hell have you been?" Fakir snaps.

"_You know it's not very nice to threaten to break someone's things, Fakir."_

_"_Then learn to pick up your phone." He says, rubbing his eyes. "Do you have any idea the situation that I've been dealing with, here?"

"_Judging from your messages, I'd venture to say a rather serious one."_

"Well right now I have a student who I have been desperately trying to avoid for the sake of my career lying across my couch _drunkenly complimenting my butt_, so _yes_, Mytho, I'd say it's rather serious."

Fakir finishes his rant, and takes a deep breath, because he feels dangerously close to triggering an aneurysm.

"..._You sound stressed, Fakir."_

"_**I am stressed!**_" Fakir shouts. "Do you know what an absolute nightmare this has been? I had to carry her back here after getting rid of some creep at the bar who was trying to take advantage of her because she can't remember her address right now, then she tells me that my hair smelled good, then I have to deal with her almost vomiting all over my couch, and _then_ she tells me that I have a '_really nice butt_'."

He hears Mytho snort on the other end, and he nearly explodes. "_This is not funny, you moron!_"

Mytho sounds like he's ready to start laughing, and Fakir is ready to kill him. "_Actually, it kind of is."_

Fakir slaps his forehead, groaning. "Just tell Rue to call her roommates to come pick her up."

"_Rue is already asleep and I'd rather not wake her up. She is rather scary when you wake her up._"

"Then _you_ call them!" He says. "Somebody just needs to come and get her the hell out of my apartment before I have a stroke."

Mytho yawns. "_Don't worry, Fakir. Pike and Lilie already know that she's safe. I texted them as soon as I got your first message."_

"And you didn't tell me this why?"

"_I figured I shouldn't interrupt you."_

Fakir rubs his eyes again and sighs heavily. "Whatever. At least they're coming to get her, then."

"_No they're not," _Mytho says. "_Pike said they're both spending the night at Lilie's boyfriend's house. Something about carpooling home for the long weekend."_

Fakir wants to scream. "You've got to be kidding me. Then _you_ come get her!"

"_Why?_"

"Because I cannot have a student sleeping in my home, much less _Ahiru._ This is beyond inappropriate. If anybody were to ever find out-"

"_Relax, Fakir. I told Pike and Lilie that she's over here, and you live far enough from campus that I don't think you have to worry about seeing anybody."_

_"_You are _completely_ missing my point."

"_I disagree. I'll be by in the morning. Goodnight, Fakir. Remember, deep breaths."_

Fakir's eyes widen. "No. Don't you **dare** hang up on me. _So help me_, Mytho. If you hang up on me, your photo equipment is _mine_. You hear me? Mytho? _Mytho!_"

The phone goes dead, and he swears.

What did he ever do to deserve this? He's a good person. Well, he tries to be, at least. Doesn't that count for something? Apparently not, or he'd already be in bed and not tending to an inebriated student who he is uncomfortably attracted to.

As if on cue he hears Ahiru retch again from down the hall, and he recalls his previous goal before the whole butt debacle. Fakir digs around in his linen closet for some extra bedding and is confused when he can't find any of the spare blankets, but then he remembers it's because Mytho (_that __**traitor**__)_ had borrowed them when he and Rue had lost their heat back in January, so he trudges to his room to grab his own comforter for her.

He returns to the living room with his bedding a few moments later. "Here, you can use these for tonight." Fakir says with burning ears, handing her the bundle. She's already managed to kick off her shoes and finish her water as well as polish off half the sleeve of crackers, but her face still has a sickly pallor that makes his stomach knot in concern."Hey, you okay?"

Ahiru doesn't speak but merely shakes her head. "M'belly's all weird," She mumbles.

"Idiot," He sighs. "How much did you drink?"

"Dunno." She says, fighting off a yawn. "Can't 'member. M'head..."

"Hold on, I'll get you some more water."

Fakir returns from the kitchen to find Ahiru already cocooned in the blanket, snoring quietly into his pillow. He sighs to himself as he sets the glass down beside her on the table. For a brief second he contemplates simply going to bed, but he feels a nagging worry for the girl on his couch. Just how much did she have to drink? She'd probably be fine, but Fakir doesn't want to chance it.

He settles himself down on the floor by her feet and turns on the television, because it's swiftly becoming apparent that he will not be sleeping tonight. Fakir makes sure that the volume is low enough to not disturb her, and flips through until the can find something half-decent to watch. He passes several embarrassingly bad infomercials for a variety of ridiculous products (_a blanket with sleeves? Why not just wear a robe?)_ until finally he settles upon a channel airing reruns of old movies.

Fakir recognizes the film as _Casablanca:_ he recognizes it by Humphrey Bogart's quote to his departing love as he makes her board the plane.

_"-you'll regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life." _Humphrey Bogart says. Fakir realizes that he's taking the quote entirely out of context, but the words make him think to Mytho's question in the kitchen:

"_Would it be worth it?"_

His stomach does this weird summersault that he's come to associate with thoughts of his student, and he leans his head back against the couch. He's hopeless.

Fakir glances at Ahiru from the corner of his eye. She's sound asleep, her snores mingling with the quiet background noise of the ending credits. He's relieved to see that there's a little more color in her face now, and that she seems to look much more at ease than before.

He notices some other things too, things that stir his heart to a gallop such as how long her eyelashes are, or how there are even more freckles adorning her nose than he had previously realized. How is it that one person could have so may freckles? They're all over: sprinkled across the bridge of her nose and the apples of her cheeks. There's even one on the edge of her upper lip, which he has just noticed is curved into a perfect cupid's bow.

He continues to stare at her despite feeling like an total _creep_, but there's just something so endearingly soft about the way the glow of the television plays off the curve of her cheek that he can't bring himself to look away, and it's within this moment that Fakir realizes that Ahiru is beautiful.

He's screwed.

* * *

Ahiru awakens in the morning with a splitting headache to the smell of fresh-brewed coffee. A fresh wave of nausea hits her, but she swallows down the bile in favor of stretching out her stiff muscles. The night before is a complete and total blur, save for some vague snippets of the bar and the smell of smoke and apples. She throws her arms above her head and yawns, and it takes her a full three minutes before she realizes that she has _absolutely no idea where she is._

So she screams.

There's a sound of glass shattering and frantic footsteps, and suddenly _Professor Lohen_ is standing in the doorway, confused and panicked.

"What?! What's going on?!" He demands.

Ahiru stares at him, trying to process the fact that _oh dear god, her professor is standing in the doorway-and that must mean that__** oh dear god, this is his**_** house-**and screams again.

"Stop screaming!" He shouts, covering his ears.

"Wha-why am I-what are you-_what the heck is going on?!"_ Ahiru shouts, head spinning. Her face feels like a wildfire because if this is his house then this must make these his blankets and _oh, that's why they smelled so good. _She's going to die.

Professor Lohen rubs his eyes, and Ahiru notices just how worn out he looks; as if he'd been up all night. "Calm down, moron. You're at my apartment. I carried you back here last night after I ran into you at the bar."

"You...you _carried me_?" She squeaks, and suddenly there isn't enough oxygen in the atmosphere.

"Yeah." He says. "You were drunk and couldn't tell me where you lived, so I had to take you back here. Mytho should be by soon to pick you up."

He disappears into the kitchen, probably to go clean up whatever he dropped when she shrieked, and she is left alone on the couch to die of mortification. Ahiru cradles her head in her hands, cheeks scarlet. This can't be happening.

Professor Lohen pokes his head into the living room again, expression just as stoic and unimpressed as ever. "Are you coming or what?"

"Ah!" She says sheepishly, standing to shuffle her way over to the kitchen. Her limbs feel like lead and she's momentarily dizzy, but she makes it to the kitchen with no further incidents. Once inside, Professor Lohen points at the table for her to sit, and she waits patiently for the lecture she's sure to get.

Instead, shockingly, she's handed a glass of water and two pills.

"Ibuprofin," He says. "For your head."

She accepts the painkillers with a meek "_Thanks,_" before swallowing both as he places a bowl of cereal in front of her. He sits down adjacent to her and nurses a cup of coffee.

Ahiru tries to focus on chewing her cheerios, but she can feel his eyes on her and her face feels so hot that she is genuinely concerned about spontaneously combusting at his kitchen table. If he notices her hand trembling as she spoons her cereal into her mouth he says nothing, and merely turns his attention to the newspaper until the doorbell rings.

_Thank goodness,_ Ahiru thinks.

She's so relieved to see Mytho standing at the door that she could cry. He greets her with his usual airy smile, and she watches as he and Professor Lohen exchange a tense look. Rather, she watches as Professor Lohen stares literal daggers into her friend's face while he continues to grin as if nothing is amiss.

"You look tired, Fakir." He comments. "Long night?"

"Your camera is mine," Is all Professor Lohen says to him, before turning his attention back to her. "Ahiru."

She jumps, stomach doing such a violent flip that her cheerios threaten to make a reappearance. "Y-Y-Yes?" She stammers.

"Be ready for class on Wednesday. I expect you to be on time."

With that he slams the door, and she's left alone with Mytho on his doormat.

"Don't worry about him," Mytho assures her. "Fakir has never been much of a morning person. Shall we be off?"

Ahiru's tongue feels strangely heavy in her mouth, so she just nods and follows him to the car. Once buckled in, Mytho fiddles with the radio until it's set to the classical music station before starting the car and driving off.

Mytho seems to be distracted by his own thoughts as well, so Ahiru turns to stare out the window. She fixes her eyes on Professor Lohen's front door, and as it drifts out of sight she realizes with a blush that her clothing now smells of apples.


	24. Madoka

**Written for crumbsorciere on tumblr.**

**The prompt:**

"_CROSS OVER TUTU WITH PUELLA MAGI MADOKA_"

**Rating: K+**

**Genres: Drama, AU**

* * *

"So, uhh…How did you know I was the nurse's aid, again?"

Fakir does not look at her, keeping his fast pace just a few steps ahead. He cuts corners so quickly that Ahiru nearly fumbles trying to keep up with him. It feels strange that he seems to already know the way despite the fact that she's supposed to be the one leading him to the infirmary, but she does not comment.

"Mr. Cat told me." He says after a moment.

"Oh," Ahiru chuckles weakly. "I guess that makes sense, then."

"So it would."

Ahiru pouts, irritated with his gruffness. Wasn't he the one who had asked for her help? Granted, it was less of a request and more of an order the way he had approached her in class with his intimidating glower and not-so-politely told him to bring him to the nurse. She was taken aback at first, completely put off by his rude demeanor, but Ahiru had told Mr. Cat that she would help the new student with his transition the best she could, so she had agreed.

But something feels off somehow, though Ahiru can't pinpoint what it is. It's something deeper than his surly attitude or intimidating stare. It's a subtle itch in the back of her mind; a tiny, nagging voice that pleads for her to _think_, to _remember_—

Ahiru shakes her head to rid herself of such odd thoughts. It had been a dream and nothing more, she tells herself. She's had weird dreams before, so what does it matter if he looked like the boy from her dream? Nothing. She tries to shake the lingering sense of deja-vu that plagues her by fishing for conversation.

"I bet it's really exciting to transfer to a new school!" Ahiru says with the best smile she can muster. Fakir does not act as if he hears her, so she simply continues in the hopes of filling the awkward silence. "I mean, I've always gone to Kinkan Academy, so I don't really know what it's like to go somewhere new. I mean, I guess it must be kind of lonely…but I'm sure you'll make lots of friends! Everyone here is really friendly—"

She crashes into Fakir's back when he suddenly halts in the middle of the hall. Ahiru steps back and rubs her nose, confused. "Hey, why'd you stop?" She asks.

Fakir does not answer immediately. She watches his shoulders tense beneath his fitted blazer, fists clenching. It sets her on edge, and she takes another step back.

"Miss Ahiru."

She jolts into a rigid stance. "Uh, yes?"

He turns to her with hard eyes. A shiver runs up her spine, and the itch grows stronger.

"Do you love your life?"

Ahiru tilts her head in confusion, taken aback by such an inquiry.

"My life?" She asks. "What do you mean?"

"Your friends. Your family. Are they important to you?"

Ahiru's fist clenches the front of her shirt. She fingers the pendant at her throat; the one Rue had given her.

"What—What kind of question is _that_ supposed to be?" Ahiru says fiercely. "Of _course_ I do! My friends and family are the most precious things in my life!"

Fakir stares her down as if she were transparent as glass. "Is that so?" He asks.

"W-Well yeah. Do you think I'm lying?" Ahiru challenges, flustered.

Fakir shifts his weight to one leg and breathes out of his nose. "I didn't say that." He responds cooly. "But if that _is_ true, then I would suggest that you don't go trying to change yourself too carelessly. It could end up costing you dearly."

Ahiru bites her lip and meets his heavy gaze. "What the heck is thatsupposed to mean?" She says defensively. The nagging feeling grows unbearable beneath her skin, and she fights the urge to scratch her arm by digging her nails into her palm.

"Nothing," Fakir says, bowing his head and turning away. He pauses, as if hesitating before he says in a strange tone, "Just stay the way you are."

With that, Fakir walks away, footsteps echoing loudly on the tiled floors as he leaves her alone in the hall with his words.


	25. Coffee, 5

**Written for the College AU/_Coffee _series.**

**Rating: T**

_**Trigger Warnings: Minor language, Alcohol, minor threatening with a maple syrup tap**_

**Genres: Comedy, AU**

* * *

"So did I tell you that Rue threatened me again?"

They're in the kitchen again, but this time it's Mytho who is on the floor. He's sprawled on his back taking photos of the ceiling fan, which does nothing but push the warm May air around the room. Mytho continues to snap away at the spinning blades, sipping his piña colada from a straw that he had jerry-rigged from taping several bendy-straws together so he wouldn't have to move. Fakir watches him from his seat at the table with a deadpan expression.

"Did she now," Mytho hums.

"Mmm. This time it was exsanguination with a maple syrup tap. I'll give her credit, she's getting more creative."

"Apparently."

Fakir takes another sip of his wine, a rather floral white with entirely more sugar than an alcoholic beverage has any business having. A gift from Ahiru for having tutored her all semester. She had informed him proudly upon presenting him with it that it was her first legal purchase.

_"I'm sorry if it's not any good; I don't really know anything about wine but the girl at the store said that this was a really popular one, especially for this time of year…"_

Fakir feels his ears warm. She had looked so nervous trying to give the stupid thing to him that he didn't have the heart to tell her that he doesn't drink whites. He takes another sip and sneers at himself. He's getting soft.

"So I see Ahiru gave you a gift."

Fakir spits out his wine, coughing. Mytho sits up with a frown.

"You got wine on my lens." He pouts.

Fakir stares at him incredulously, wiping the side of his mouth with his sleeve. "How the _hell_—"

"You don't drink whites." Mytho states simply, reaching for his camera bag. He extracts a cleaning cloth and carefully wipes away the remnants of Fakir's spit take from the glass. "So it's either you've suddenly acquired a taste for _Gewürztraminer_ or Ahiru gave it to you and you didn't have the heart to tell her you didn't like it."

Fakir scowls as Mytho fiddles with a few buttons on his camera. "You're really irritating, you know that?"

"It's only because I care, Fakir."

"If you truly cared, then you'd stop advocating so hard for me to ask her out." Fakir says. He perches his chin on his fist, narrowing his eyes at Mytho as he returns to his previous position on the floor.

"Like I said, it's because I care."

Fakir downs the rest of his glass of wine because screw sobriety, this semester was freaking stressful and he's earned it. "Whatever. At least I don't have to deal with having her in my lectures anymore," He says as he pours himself another glass, and while the thought _should_ make him happy, all he can feel is a jab of disappointment. He pours a little more in.

"Is that a note of dismay I hear in your voice?" His best friend teases.

Fakir's eyebrow twitches. Mytho knows him too well and it's starting to become a problem. "Does it matter?"

Mytho sits up again and looks at him with a surprisingly serious face; he probably wasn't expecting Fakir to answer with any real honesty. "Of course it matters. You deserve to be happy, Fakir. And if Ahiru is who makes you happy, then I really can't see why you shouldn't at least try."

Fakir sighs, spinning the stem of the wine glass between his fingers. "Mytho, I've told you a hundred times why I can't try. She's a student and I'm a professor. That's all there is to it."

Mytho is oddly quiet, and after almost a minute of silence Fakir finally turns to him, and is very confused when he sees that he's smiling. "What?" He asks. "What is with that stupid grin?"

"You said 'can't'." Mytho's smile grows wider, and Fakir finds his own frown deepening.

"What?"

"You said why you '_can't_' try."

Fakir scowls. "And?"

"You've always said you '_won't_' try. This is the first time you've said you '_can't_'."

Mytho's grin just grows bigger and bigger, and for a moment Fakir is so distracted by how stupidly thrilled his friend is over a tiny change in vocabulary that he almost doesn't realize the implication of his word choice. Face red with mortification, he immediately switches into damage-control mode.

"Mytho? _Mytho._ Don't you _dare_ get the wrong idea—it's not—I _don't_— **Mytho I'm serious, get that grin off your face before I **_**slap**_** it off."**

But Mytho still looks absolutely elated. "I knew you liked her! Oh, this is wonderful, Fakir!"

"You're doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"You know," Fakir hisses, "That thing. The one where you put _words in my mouth._"

Mytho frowns. He grabs his drink and makes to sit down at the table. "Fakir, sitting here and ignoring your feelings won't just make them magically go away."

"I'm not ignoring anything," Fakir says. "I've already admitted that I find her attractive. What more do you want?"

"For you to admit that you have feelings for her." Mytho responds. "If you truly don't care about her in that way, then say so already so she can move on with that other boy."

Fakir snaps his head to Mytho so quickly that he pinches a nerve. "**What**other boy?" He asks through clenched teeth. Not that it matters, he tells himself. Not that he cares. Mytho takes a sip of his drink through his ridiculously long straw, and Fakir feels his sanity, not unlike his patience, rapidly slipping through his fingers like sand."_What boy, Mytho?"_

"The one I made up just now to see if you'd get jealous or not."

Fakir gapes at him, and the room suddenly feels much too hot for mid-May. "You—_You_—"

Mytho hums. "Like I was saying, bottling up your feelings like this won't do anything but hurt you in the long run. At least if they're out there then they can be properly dealt with."

Fakir takes in a sharp, flustered breath through his nose. "Alright," He says angrily, "You want the truth? _Fine._ The truth is, she pisses me off. She's always running around without looking where she's going and crashing into things, and she's always late. And I'm not talking five minutes, I'm talking _forty-five _minutes_._ It's like she's physically incapable of existing in a particular space at the designated time at which she's supposed to be in it. Do you know how irritating it is when she comes clattering in while I'm in the middle of a lecture?

And she texts me all the time about the stupidest things. Like what they're serving in the cafeteria that day or pictures of a bird or a cat she saw on her way home or something. It's distracting, and my phone never stops buzzing now. It's annoying."

Everything comes up in a sudden swell: Fakir has broken the dam, and now he can't stop himself. By this point, he's practically shouting.

"More so, Ahiru is one of the most infuriatingly brash people I've ever met. She goes headfirst into situations without even giving a shred of thought as to the consequences. She's incredibly nosy, too. It's like she can't keep herself out of other people's business; always prying with these stupid questions to see what's bothering people and wanting to know everyone's life story."

Fakir slams his hands on the table, jerking his chair back as he stands to give proper leverage to his self-fuled fury. The chair's legs screech across the tile floor and his face is burning and he feels the embarrassment from such a confession swelling in his gut, but still he cannot stop himself.

"And you want to know the worst part? None of it is ever for herself. Everything she does is for other people. It's like she gives no thought to her own well-being. Like, if someone was about to be hit by a truck and she so happened to be walking by, I think—you know what, no, I'm **sure** that she would not hesitate to throw herself in front of it to save them.

She is so ridiculously selfless and trusting that it's going to end up hurting her, and that thought _terrifies_ me. It scares me because I care _so __**much**_ for this _stupid girl_ that the thought of her getting hurt makes me physically _ill_. She's on my mind every second of the day, and everything she does makes me feel so _content_ that it's sickening. So, _yes. _I'll admit it. _I like Ahiru. _I like Ahiru a **lot.** You know, I might even _love_ her at this point. Who the hell even knows?_" _

He sits again, glaring at Mytho who watches him, speechless.

"There," Fakir grumbles, finally breaking eye contact because he can't handle any more. "_Happy now_?"

Mytho opens his mouth to respond, but suddenly the silence is broken by another, muffled voice.

_"You have reached the maximum length for your voicemail. Please press one or hang up to send, or two to re-record."_

Both freeze, and a look of horror crosses Fakir's face as they both look down towards Mytho's pocket.

"Mytho," He says weakly, "Please tell me you didn't_._"

Mytho pulls out his cellphone and sees that yes, yes he did:

The word "_Princess_" is written at the top of his phone's screen, and the call length beneath it ticks upwards of 20 minutes. The automated voicemail message crackles to life again from the speaker as they try to process the fact that _oh dear god they had just left a message of Fakir confessing on Rue's phone._

_"You have reached the maximum length for your voicemail. Please press one or hang up to send, or two to re-record."_

"What are you doing?! _Press two!"_ Fakir shouts.

Mytho snaps out of his shock and tries to unlock his phone, but he fumbles and drops it on the floor. It clatters against the tile and bounces a few feet away.

_"You have reached the maximum length for your voicemail."_ The automated voice chirps._ "Please press one or hang up to send, or two to re-record."_

"Grab it!" Fakir howls. "_Quick_!"

Mytho rushes to get out of his chair but he kicks it across the floor with his foot in his mad dash to retrieve it. Fakir watches in slow motion as it slides beneath the stove, and practically dives to the floor to grab it. But he's not nearly fast enough, and the cellphone slides easily out of his reach.

"Dammit, Mytho!" Fakir hollers. He sticks his hand underneath has far as it can go, but there's only about an inch of space and Fakir's hands are big. He tries to fit it underneath as best as he can, pressing his face to the floor in a desperate attempt to see where the phone went.

_"You have reached the maximum length for your voicemail. Please press one or hang up to send, or two to re-record."_

"No, no, no, no, no," Fakir mutters. If that voicemail sends, his life is over. He is dead. Rue will murder him, if he doesn't end up burying himself alive first. But luck for once seems to be on his side, for the screen lights up and it's close enough to grab with the tip of his finger. He sighs with relief, pressing his finger down on it to drag it out, and that's when the line goes dead.

Mytho is hanging over his shoulder, watching anxiously. "Fakir? Fakir, what's wrong? You're pale as a sheet."

Fakir sits up, holding the phone in his hand. He stares at it blankly.

"I hung up." He says.

Mytho's eyes widen to the size of tea saucers. "Oh no. Fakir, hang on, I'll call her back—"

"No, it's okay." Fakir says, and his voice is surprisingly empty. He pushes the phone into Mytho's chest, walking back to the table. He sits down and Mytho is unsure of how to respond.

"It is?" He asks, shocked at his friend's unusually calm demeanor.

"Yeah. Because I've decided that if I die over this—" Fakir starts with nonchalance, and Mytho watches as Fakir bypasses his wine glass entirely to go straight for the bottle. He finishes it in a few chugs, wiping his mouth before slamming it down on the table and pointing at him. "_**I'm taking you with me.**_"


	26. Hollywood

**Written for crumbsorciere on tumblr. Set in 1940's Hollywood.**

**The prompt:**

_"Lights, the power OT4."_

**Rating: K+**

**Genres: Fluff, AU**

* * *

Ahiru fidgets in her seat, tugging at the neckline of her dress for the seventh time in the past few minutes. For such an expensive gown, it was unbelievably itchy. It only makes her feel even more out of place in the huge, luxurious car. Packard 180's are what movie stars drive around in—not scene extras.

more

"Stop fiddling so much with your dress. You're going to wrinkle it."

Ahiru glances to her right at Rue, looking every bit the beauty queen she's known to be. She's dressed in a long, form-fitting black number with translucent, flowing draperies and a portrait neckline that shows off the elegant curve of her neck. Her curled hair is tied up in a regal twist, and her ears are studded with diamond drop earrings that could probably pay off the rent for Ahiru's apartment for the next ten years.

Ahiru blushes sheepishly. "Sorry," She squeaks, "I'm just kinda nervous, I guess."

"Don't be," Rue says, waving her hand. "You look amazing and you have every right to be here. You were in this film too, were you not?"

"Yeah, as an _extra!_" The redhead says. "I'm not some big movie star like you or Mytho or Fakir. I don't…I don't belong here."

"Nonsense," Rue scolds, taking out a compact mirror from her clutch. She flicks it open and powders her cheeks. "You belong here just as much as any of us do. Now just hold your chin up high and remember that there is a reason why you are walking down that carpet."

_Yeah,_ Ahiru thinks dejectedly as she slouches back into the leather seat, _Because I spilled coffee in Fakir's lap_.

And what a mortifying experience _that _had been: Ebine's was a fairly popular little restaurant, but to have Mytho and Fakir stroll in at half-passed nine on a friday night had almost made Ahiru faint from sheer excitement. And then, of course, she had spilled coffee all over the surly actor in her starstruck haze, which had led to a rather colorful lecture from _him,_ leading to an invitation to an after party from _Mytho_ as an apology…and somehow this all lead to Ahiru being dolled up in the back of a limousine next to Hollywood's most sought-after actress on their way to a movie premier.

It makes her feel uneasy, somehow. As if she'd cheated her way into getting a part, no matter how small it was. Rue had assured her not to feel upset by the idea, since in this business _'it's not what you know, but whom._' All _that_ did, however, was make her feel even more like a cheat. Ahiru wants to be an actress, but she wants to do it on her own merit.

She pulls at her neckline again.

The car slows to a crawl as the line of cars circle the theater, and Ahiru's stomach gives an anxious lurch. "What if I trip? What do I say? Are you sure my dress looks okay? Is my makeup alright?"

She asks questions at rapid-fire speed, growing dizzier and dizzier. Rue puts her hand on her shoulder comfortingly.

"Relax, Ahiru. You will do splendidly. Just remember what I told you, okay?"

Ahiru nods shakily, taking a deep breath. "Okay."

The car finally halts, and Rue clicks her compact shut with a decisive _snap_. "It's time," She says as the driver pulls the door open.

Ahiru watches in awe as she steps out of the car and sweeps around to the reporters in one graceful, fluid motion. Rue looks like a queen with her red-tinted lips and bright eyes and coquettish smile, and Ahiru realizes that she pretty much is. It only makes it more difficult to muster the gumption to step out of the car.

"Do you need help, miss?" The driver asks, and Ahiru can only stammer out an affirmative half-response before taking the man's hand. He pulls her out and suddenly she's blinded by flash bulbs.

"Over here!" She hears from about a hundred different directions. Ahiru rubs her eyes before remembering her mascara and squints against the flashing lights.

"Huh?"

A microphone is shoved towards her face and she nearly stumbles backwards in surprise.

"So what role do you have in this film, miss?" The reporter asks her.

Ahiru blinks, trying to find her bearings amongst the roar of the crowd. "Um, I'm just an extra—"

Another microphone nudges at her, a voice shouting, "How do you know Miss Rue?"

"We're friends—"

"_Are you the woman we've been seeing around town with Mytho Siegfried?_"

Ahiru's cheeks color. "Uh, I guess so!" She chirps. The crowd roars to life at the admittance, and Ahiru gets the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that she has just made a very, very grave error.

"_What is your relationship with Mytho?_"

"_Are you two together?_"

"_We have reports of you being seen with Fakir Lohengrin as well. Care to comment?_"

Ahiru's head starts to spin again and she looks desperately around for Rue. She finally spots her up ahead with Mytho, posing for pictures. She tries to call out for them to come rescue her from this den of lions, but her voice is all but lost amongst the chaos.

"_Do you intend to step in between Miss Kraehe and Mr. Siegfried's relationship?"_

Ahiru's eyes widen to horrified saucers. "What? _No,_ I would _never_—!"

_"So who exactly __**are**__ you, anyway?_"

A panicked cry begins to bubble up her throat, overwhelmed by the barrage of questions. Just as she feels on the brink of tears, she feels an hand on her lower back.

"Miss Morgenstern will be taking no more questions," Fakir states bluntly, pressing his hand firmly against her back to push her further down the carpet. The reporters all but explode at his sudden appearance, and Ahiru doesn't even have time to voice her shock before Fakir whisks her down the carpet and into the building.

"_Thank you_!" Ahiru all but cries once they're tucked safely away in a corner of the lobby. "I thought I was going to faint!"

Fakir runs a hand through his slicked-back hair and sighs. He looks strikingly handsome in his fitted black tuxedo, and Ahiru feels her face warm.

"The paparazzi are sharks. It's best to just smile and ignore them." Fakir says with a grimace. "Better that than to go running your mouth like you just did."

Ahiru's cheeks color in outrage. "I _didn't_—It's not like I _meant_ to—!"

"Whatever. What's done is done. Just don't be so careless next time." He says, turning on his heel. Ahiru watches him go with irritation—and to think she _thanked_ him! However, her anger morphs into further surprise when Fakir pauses in his leave, peering at her over his shoulder.

"You're alright, though?" He asks quietly.

The sinking feeling in her stomach is suddenly replaced by a warm fluttering. Surprising even herself, she thinks how even the new colored movies fail to do the green of his eyes justice, and feels her face burn.

"Y-Yeah," She stammers.

Fakir gives a curt nod. "Good. I'll see you inside, then." He says, and the word is spoken with surprising softness. It makes her smile.

"Thank you again, Fakir!" She calls, and her grin widens when he holds a hand up in recognition.

It is only a moment later that Mytho and Rue finally appear. Rue makes an immediate beeline towards her, concern evident in her usually flawless composure.

"Ahiru! Are you alright?" She asks. Mytho hovers beside her, just as worried for his friend as Rue is.

"We saw Fakir rush you inside," He says, frowning. "Is everything alright?"

Ahiru smiles sheepishly, scratching her cheek. "Yeah. The reporters were just being really pushy so Fakir came and rescued me. Sorry for worrying you."

Rue smiles, sighing. "Whatever are we going to do with you?" She muses teasingly.

"Indeed," Mytho chuckles, offering an arm to each of them. "Shall we, ladies?"

Ahiru smiles and takes his arm, following his lead inside.


	27. Anniversary

**Written for lyriette on tumblr. Prequel to chapter 8, _Wedding._**

**The prompt:**

_"fakiru, anniversary"_

**Rating: K+**

**Genres: Fluff**

* * *

"So you're actually going to do this."

Fakir glances over his shoulder at Autor as he works the bellows, who is propped up against the doorway. His arms are crossed in judgement, brow arched. Fakir squints at him.

"I didn't make these for nothing." He replies, gesturing to the two rings sitting on the forge. They are nothing particularly fancy, just two simple golden bands with a tiny etching of a feather on each one. Fakir had spent days working on the engravings alone.

Autor puts his handkerchief over his nose as a puff of smoke and ash blow through the smithy as Fakir gives the bellows a particularly hard press. "You _are_ aware that she's a _duck_, yes?"

Fakir puts the bellows down to turn to Autor with a glare. "Yes, I am." He says irritably. "What's your point?"

"So you're planning on asking a _duck_ to marry you_._"

"You know very well that she's not _just_ a duck." Fakir snaps, pulling off his thick leather gloves. "You remember the story."

"Of course I do. I'm just about the only person who does," Autor says, adjusting his glasses with a frown. "But I'm trying to save you the headache of trying to explain to people that your wife is a _water fowl_."

Fakir swipes the rings from off of the forge and stuffs them into his pants pocket. "What does it matter what anybody else thinks?" He says, and he means it: why should he care what anyone thinks of them? He and Ahiru know the truth, and that's all that matters to him.

Autor sighs as Fakir goes to sit down on a nearby stool. He watches with exasperation as he picks up a towel and wipes his face off. "There's no stopping you, is there?"

"Not a chance." Fakir replies fiercely. "I said forever, and I _meant_ it. I don't care if she's a girl or a duck or an _elephant_. What matters is that she's Ahiru, and neither you nor anybody else can stop me from doing this."

Autor raises his hands in defeat. "Fine, fine. You're impossible, you know that?"

"So I've been told."

Fakir doesn't have to look at his cousin to know that he's rolling his eyes. He continues to wipe the soot off of his face, and is surprised when Autor materializes in front of him with a cup of water. He holds it out like a begrudging peace offering, but Fakir nonetheless accepts it. After all, as obtuse as the man can be, Fakir knows that he is only trying to look out for him in his own peculiar way.

"So," Autor says, shifting the conversation to a less heated topic as Fakir chugs the water. "Why are you so insistent that these be done by tomorrow?"

"I thought it'd be fitting." Fakir replies, wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb. "After all, tomorrow is the anniversary."

"Anniversary of what?"

Fakir looks up at him, and this time he even manges to smile a bit.

"The last time we danced."


	28. Coffee, 6

**Written for the college AU/Coffee series. Set directly after chapter 25, _"Coffee, 5"_**

**Rating: T**

**Genres: AU, Comedy**

* * *

"_Oh, Professor~!_"

Normally Fakir's default reaction to these two words is an eye roll and a less than enthusiastic, "What do you want," but this is not a time to settle on auto pilot, not if he values his life. Because Fakir knows that voice, he knows it well, and buried beneath the sweet, melodic canter of Rue's call is a violent promise that does not bode well for his lifespan. So instead of turning around and facing his doom, he slams his laptop shut, grabs his bag, and hastily _runs the hell away_.

But damn it if Rue isn't fast—she catches him by the arm just as he's about to clear the threshold of the English building. Her smile is pleasant, friendly even, but her grip on his elbow is almost painful.

"There you are! For a moment I thought you didn't hear me," Rue says happily. Her expression remains chipper, but her voice takes on a distinct note of aggression when she continues, "_I've been looking for you._"

Fakir swallows, and the vice-grip on his arm tightens uncomfortably when he responds flatly, "I'm very busy. If you'd like to meet with me, then schedule an appointment." He tries to break her hold, but she nearly digs her nails into his arm at his attempt.

"Oh, it'll only take a few minutes, I _promise." _She says, and the look in her eye promises that no matter how short their interaction will be, she will make it a painful one.

"Are you hard of hearing? I said I'm busy." Fakir snaps, yanking his arm free.

Rue is clever though, more than she has any right to be. Her face falls in mock hurt, and as soon as he spots the tears welling in her eyes he knows he's trapped.

"B-But Professor Lohen, I really need your help!" She cries loudly. Rue buries her face in her hands, shoulders heaving with fake sobs. "Please!"

People are beginning to look as Rue continues making a scene, and Fakir is ready to brain himself on the brick facade of the building to spare himself from this quickly-spiraling mess. Rue gives a particularly loud sob, and he snaps.

"Fine, just come to my office." He can feel the eyes follow him as he opens the door for her. He glares the bystanders down until they scatter.

"Oh, thank you!" She cries in mock-relief, dabbing at her tears with the corner of her sleeve. They lock eyes as she passes him and her wordless message is clear: _I win._

* * *

They walk in relative silence through the hallways of the English department. Rue as pleasant as ever, smiling and waving at acquaintances while Fakir trudges along behind her, as enthusiastic as a man on his way to his own execution. Which, knowing the woman ahead of him, is probably not an inaccurate assumption. He feels the beginnings of a migraine prickling behind his eyes.

When they're finally in the privacy of his office, Rue goes for the kill. She wheels around on her heel, eyes wide and furious as she jabs her thin, manicured finger into his chest.

"Are you masochistic, or just moronic?" She demands. "I told you to stay away from Ahiru. Or do you not remember?"

Fakir glowers down at her, pushing her hand away from his chest. "It's kind of hard to forget. After all, it's not every day that I'm threatened with exsanguination via syrup tap."

"Keep it up, Fakir, and it'll be a PVC pipe," Rue warns.

He scowls, sidestepping around her to walk towards his desk. "I'm shaking," He deadpans.

Rue glares at him. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing, Lohen," She hisses, "But so help me if you so much as _look _in Ahiru's direction—"

"Relax, Kraehe. I won't."

For a moment, Rue looks taken aback by his abrupt surrender, but her suspicion returns. She squints at him, snarling. "You won't _what_? Stay away from her?"

"Quite the opposite," Fakir says cooly, pulling out his seat. He falls heavily into his chair, watching Rue with wary eyes. The migraine throbs in his temples. "I'll have you know that I fully intend to stay as far away from Ahiru as possible."

Wordlessly she pulls out her phone, fingers flying across the screen until an electronic rendering of his voice loudly proclaims to the room,_ 'So, _yes_. I'll admit it. _I like Ahiru_. I like Ahiru a __**lot**__. You know, I might even _love_ her at this point. Who the hell even knows?'_

Fakir is unsure if it's the migraine that threatens to split his skull in half or the simple penetrating force of Rue's glare. He should really take something for his head. Or kick Rue out of his office. Or just throw himself from the roof. Whichever.

"Well you seem to be doing a rather poor job of it," Rue sneers, locking her phone. "Walking with her around campus, eating lunch with her, texting each other at all hours of the night—where do you even get _away_ with that? And now _**this**__?_ She's your student, you pig!"

Fakir rubs his eyes. "I'm well aware of that, thank you." _Boy_, is he ever aware of that.

"Quite obviously you're not, or you'd have stopped this little—_whatever this is _between you two—a long time ago."

Fakir opens his mouth to retort, but quite honestly he doesn't have one. Rue's right: if he were truly serious about separating himself from Ahiru, he would have done so already. But instead he finds himself in the rather precarious situation of doing the exact opposite. In fact, over the past year the two have grown oddly close, and Fakir would be a liar if he said he didn't enjoy it.

"I know," He admits with defeat.

"Then why don't you?" Rue says through furious, clenched teeth. "Do you even realize the harm this could do her? To be caught having an affair with a _teacher—"_

"Do you think I don't know that?" Fakir shouts. His head is pounding, dizzy with images of a redheaded, freckled girl who has him so tightly wrapped around her finger that it's actually a little disconcerting. "She could be kicked out. She's only got a year left until she graduates and getting involved with me could jeopardize that."

"Congratulations," Rue deadpans, clapping. "You're not a total idiot after all."

Fakir glares at her, but says nothing. What is there to say? That she's right? That he's a pig who can't handle a simple crush on some silly girl with too-bright eyes? That he tries to remind himself every day that he walks a dangerous line between agony and bliss, between losing everything he's ever worked towards and gaining everything he's never known he wanted? That every day his own arguments become as sturdy as a pile of dry sand?

To be honest, it's been a while since he's been able to convince himself that pursuing her was a bad idea. Mytho is right. Age isn't an issue, not really: she's 21 and he's just on the cusp of 25, barely a 4 year difference between them. And after countless hours of tutoring sessions and lunch meetings that he refuses to call dates for the sake of his sanity, he's realized that they have much more in common than originally thought. As it turns out they can talk for hours together: about literature and school work and classical music (a favorite of both, shockingly.) She's charming and funny and genuine and sweet, and at this point Fakir is just grasping at straws.

Truth is that he doesn't _want_ to stop, not really. The only thing keeping his wits in check is the fact that one wrong move and his job is shot, but as the days tick by even that seems to be a feeble threat in the shadow of such promise. Fakir realizes now that he's crossed the event horizon, and his doom is inevitable.

"What do I do?" He says, because at this point it's really all he _can_ say. The absolute last thing he wants to do is hurt Ahiru, and as much as he hates to admit it (and does he _ever_ hate to admit it,) Rue is the best person to help him out with keeping her the hell away.

"First of all, enough with the messages." Rue says. "Delete her number from your phone. Stop going to lunch together. Don't talk to her outside of class or outside of tutoring, and _move on_. It's what's best for you both."

"'_For you both'_?" Fakir chuckles ruefully. "Since when have you been concerned for my sake?"

"Believe me, Fakir, I'm not." She frowns. "But as much as I dislike it, you're still important to Ahiru and important to Mytho, so therefore I still have to consider you."

"I'm touched."

"Don't be."

Fakir leans back in his chair, sighing heavily. The room is stuffy and the atmosphere is unpleasant, and he pulls irritatedly at the collar of his button-up. "Is that all you wanted to say to me, Rue? Or do you have any other words of wisdom to grace me with?"

Rue purses her lips distastefully, staring down at him from the tip of her nose. "No, I believe that I have made myself quite clear," She says, schooling herself back into her prim composure. It's a little startling how easily this girl can switch her emotions, and in a strange way, Fakir is oddly grateful that Ahiru has somebody so fiercely loyal watching out for her.

Like hell he would ever say that, though.

"Now if that's all, _Professor_, I will see myself out." Rue says.

"Please do," Fakir sighs for not the last time that day. He tries to busy himself by organizing the mess of papers on his desk. "Make sure to flip the lock on your way out."

He doesn't bother to look up to see if she actually heeded his request, but as much as they butt heads, Fakir does not see her as the kind to be unnecessarily spiteful. She's said her piece, and for now that should suffice. Still, the air in the room is uncomfortably stuffy, so he stands to open the window. Almost immediately the room is filled with a warm may breeze and the sound of chattering students ambling about on their way to classes. Faintly on the wind, he can smell the flowers from the courtyard's garden—one of Ahiru's favorite spots on campus.

When he returns to his seat, he settles his head in his arms and sighs.


	29. Sink

**Written for lyriette on tumblr.**

**The Prompt:**

_"Fakir dies in Ahiru's arms, never confessing his love"_

**Rating: T**

**_Trigger Warnings: Major character death, blood_**

**Genres: Tragedy**

* * *

"Fakir, oh, Fakir, no," Her voice is strangled, and he feels something wet hit his cheek. She's crying, and somehow this knowledge stings worse than his wound. "No, no, no, no, _no. Fakir, listen to me._"

He's trying to. Fakir pulls in a ragged, scorching breath that does nothing to soothe his aching lungs. His insides are burning, as if his very flesh is being turned to ash. Beyond the burn he can feel the slow and steady throb of blood, can feel the heat of it as it soaks through his shirt and pools beneath his form. He has just enough strength to open his eyes so he can see her face.

Tears stream down her flushed cheeks, nose running and shoulders hunched in such raw grief that it nearly winds him. _Don't cry for me, please_, he wants to beg her; _I'm not worth crying over_. But he is weak, in far more ways than one, and so he can only manage to murmur a broken, "Don't…cry…idiot,"

But her eyes are a rainstorm; blue and grey and cataclysmic. The world around them shatters around her eyes, falling away like molted feathers. On the thought of feathers he notes somewhere far away in the back of his mind that the incessant cawing of the crows have stopped. The entire story seems to have ground to a halt, this tragedy taking center stage. Fakir would comment on the irony that he's managed to fulfill this wretched fate after all, but he refuses to give that bastard the satisfaction. Instead he raises a pale and shaking hand to her cheek.

Her skin is warm to the touch, but not like the slow burn that steals the life from his bones. She feels the way the summer sun feels on his face, or the way a fire feels when coming in from the cold. He's been cold for so long, now.

She takes his hand in hers, clutching his blood stained palm to her cheek. She holds him tightly despite the way it smears against her skin and bleeds into the white of her skirts, and he wonders how he ever could have thought to live without her.

"_You're_ the idiot!" She sobs, voice cracking. "What were you thinking, jumping in front of me like that?"

Fakir makes to gently brush his thumb over the bruise on her cheek. Her skin is littered with them; patches of dusty blues and purples blooming against her skin like peonies. He sees her split lip and his heart threatens to do the same.

_ I couldn't let them hurt you anymore._

But words are tiresome, and he's so very tired already. So he sighs, a heavy sound that creaks his bones, and thinks to a time before this. Before bloody rainfalls and the screams of crows, when she had smiled at him so earnestly. When he had felt the weight of her pendant in his hands, when he had felt the weight of her figure in his arms. He thinks to a time not long ago where he had promised to stay by her side, and it's bitter on his tongue.

The regret that knots in his throat is thick and copper tasting. How funny is it that he only realizes how badly he wishes to stay with her when he only has but moments left? His vision grows hazy, her face blurring into shadows. Still, he feels her skin.

"You can't go," He hears her cry. Her fingers tighten around his own as if her grip could anchor him. He focuses on her eyes like the last pinpricks of light in the dark.

He knows he can't, but he also knows he will. His body is in bloodied shambles, a ruined monument to Drosselmeyer's magnum opus. And how very pleased the man must be, to have the knight who couldn't bother to die finally learning his place in the world.

The gears begin to turn again.

Fakir cannot see very well anymore, and despite knowing that she still has his hand, even her warmth is lost to him. All he knows is the blue of her eyes, and the aching want that lingers in his breast. A want to see her happy, a want to dry her tears. To tell her what he had only just hours ago realized in the depths of that lake as he held her close and promised her forever.

But he has broken her enough, he thinks, and holding his tongue is the last kindness he can do for her. Fakir refuses to burden her heart any more than what he knows he has already, because she's too kind for her own good and her heart too wide and open. He knows his death will mar her, and as wretched and unworthy as he is he knows she will carry him always. He does not deserve such kindness, but he refuses to add to what he knows will be a heavy burden with any more of his selfishness.

So Fakir musters the last of his strength to smile for her, as she has always seemed to do for him, and tells her to do the same. "No matter what," He tells her, "Smile."

He cannot see her anymore, and her cries have long since faded. To be honest he isn't sure if she had even heard him, but he hopes that she understands him. She's always been able to before.

The regret is not so bitter now as he sinks into the darkness. He's in the lake and floating down, and there is a peace he hasn't known before. No, he _has_ before; once, not long ago in a similar setting. He's felt this peace before he realizes, at the bottom of a lake with a girl in his arms and a love that's frail but fierce. She may never realize it, but as he sinks deeper he thinks, _this is okay_. For a girl who's given him every kindness, this is the least of what he can return. He only hopes she takes it.


	30. Call

**Written for crumbsorciere on tumblr.**

**The Prompt:**

_"things you said on the phone"_

**Rating: K**

**Genres: Fluff**

* * *

Fakir shifts his coat to his other arm, trying to keep his suitcase propped up between his leg and the wall. He cradles the phone between his ear and shoulder as he tries to get a proper hold on his hat with one hand while digging for his ticket in his pants pocket with the other.

The operator's voice is pleasant when she greets him and asks,_ "Where would you like to place your call?"_

"122 Lichtfeld Straße, Goldkrone." Fakir answers. The girl confirms the address and tells him to wait a moment while she transfers the call, and he runs a hand through his hair impatiently.

Behind him people clamor to their platforms, footfalls echoing in the station like hail on a tin roof. A distant whine of a train whistle tells him that he has to hurry, and he shifts impatiently from foot to foot as the line connects. Blessedly, he only waits a few seconds longer before the phone crackles to life and he hears a familiar voice chirp, "_Hello?_"

"Ahiru," Fakir nearly sighs, relieved that he was able to get in touch with her before he left. "It's me."

"_Ah! Fakir!_" She sounds delighted, and he feels a small smile involuntarily creep across his lips. It's almost ridiculous how much he's missed her voice in just the few short days it's been since he's heard it. "_I thought you were supposed to be on a train!_"

"I am," Fakir says, readjusting the phone so he can better hold it against his ear. The station is noisy and he wants to be able to hear her. "I just wanted to call and check in before I boarded."

"_Everything's good on this end,_" She says cheerfully. "_You actually have super good timing, Fakir. I just walked in from the market–I picked up a few jam cookies from Ebine's while I was out and I've got some fresh bread in the oven now!_"

Fakir hooks his thumb in his pocket, smirking as he turns to check over his shoulder at the crowd of people. "Try not to burn down the kitchen, okay? I'd like for the house to be in one piece when I get back."

He hides his chuckle behind a balled fist when he hears Ahiru's indignant huff on the other end. "_Excuse you, I am a _very_ good baker, you jerk!_"

"Says the girl who makes me eat the charred remnants of her failures every time she feels inclined to try a new recipe."

"_Jerk!_"

"Moron."

The line goes quiet, and for a moment Fakir thinks that the line has gone dead. He shifts the receiver closer to his ear. "Ahiru? Are you there?"

"_Yeah_," She answers quietly. Ahiru pauses again, and Fakir can almost imagine her fiddling with the hem of her dress. The image makes his chest feel tight. "_I really miss you, Fakir._"

Fakir's eyes soften. "Yeah," He says, voice gentle, "I miss you too."

The train's whistle comes blaring to life again, reminding Fakir that he's pressed for time. He glances over his shoulder and sees the last few passengers rushing to board.

"Listen, I've got to go catch my train now, but I'll be home soon, okay?"

"_Okay. Be safe,_" She says. "_I'll be waiting._"

"I will be." He says, thinking of home and all of the wonderful things that home means: his own bed, his own writing desk, his chair, a home-cooked meal, and most importantly, the girl on the phone. Fakir thinks of Ahiru waiting for him and the words come easy.

"I love you."

Though Fakir can't see her, he can hear in her voice that she's beaming, and it makes him smile in kind. "_I love you too._"

Fakir is reluctant to hang up but the train's whistle is insistent, and so he shrugs on his jacket and hat and hurries along to the platform. As he settles into his seat he thinks of Ahiru and the words she had said, and he carries them all the way home.


	31. Coffee, 7

**Gift fic for trixystix on tumblr. I wrote this ages ago and realized it was never posted here! Oops. Written for the Coffee/College AU, set some time after chapter 28.**

**Rating: T**

_**Trigger Warnings: Minor language, Fakir's violent creativity**_

**Genres: AU, Comedy**

* * *

"Again?"

Fakir's stare burns a hole through the (_admittedly half-decent, for once_) essay on his desk. His red pen is clutched so tightly in his hand that he can feel the plastic warping beneath his fingertips, and idly he wonders if he can break his best friend's neck as easily as he can break this pen. Not that he ever would, but with the pointed look the pale-haired man is giving him from the doorway, the idea's appeal begins to grow. However, he manages to bring his homicidal rage down to a more suitable level for a professional environment and continues correcting his students' papers.

He hears Mytho sigh. "Fakir, you cannot be serious."

On the contrary, Fakir is quite serious. He's even more serious than the stroke he will undoubtedly have by the end of this semester. But he does not vocalize his opinion on seriousness and stress-induced cardiovascular problems, electing to instead blatantly ignore Mytho's exasperated noises.

The clock on the wall is very loud, and Fakir kind of despises how he subconsciously counts each tick of the second hand. Somehow, though, Mytho manages to be even louder in his disapproving silence. He's not sure how it's even possible to hear someone frowning, but the man manages and after seven minutes Fakir is ready to pull his own hair out. He slams his pen down on the desk and swivels in his chair to face him.

"What do you want, Mytho?" Fakir asks acidly.

Mytho does not back down to what Fakir himself considers to be a pretty formidable glare, but that probably shouldn't surprise him considering how long they've been friends. Instead, Mytho frowns at him. Fakir wonders idly how low the corners of his friend's mouth can even go, because right when he thinks that Mytho's orbicularis oris has reached its limit, the muscle's dedication to dissatisfaction continues to impress.

"I want you to be honest with me." Mytho says, crossing his arms. "Why have you been canceling all of your classes? This is the third one in a row."

"I had a personal situation that needed to be handled," Fakir responds cooly.

It isn't a lie, technically speaking. He really does have a personal situation (_rather, __**crisis**__,_) going on. Whether he's actually _handling_ said situation, however–well, he won't bother with semantics.

Mytho's frown deepens, and Fakir scowls at the way his friend's golden eyes pick him apart. He knows him too well, and it is proving to be his downfall. There is an air of concern in his voice when he asks, "What situation?"

For a moment, Fakir actually feels bad for making his best friend worry like this. Then he remembers that it's Mytho's fault that his girlfriend nearly crucified him when she heard that voicemail they left on her phone when the man pocket-dialed her, and the guilt he feels immediately shrivels and dies. He keeps his lips sealed tight and turns away to resume his grading, but Mytho circles his desk and stubbornly continues to pry.

"Fakir, talk to me, please." Mytho implores. "If you're in trouble or something, tell me."

Fakir glowers, ears burning despite his best efforts as Mytho continues to try and get him to share what could possibly be serious enough to cause Fakir to cancel class. He briefly considers telling him, weighing the pros and cons of telling his meddling best friend that he has essentially royally screwed himself. On one hand, the relief of actually telling somebody is terribly tempting. The guilt has been eating him from the inside out, and his nerves are so raw that he's pretty sure his hair is going to go white.

On the other hand, if Mytho ever finds out what occurred, Fakir will never hear the end of it. He can imagine it now: Mytho will get that awful, stupid grin on his face and then he'll make that _noise_ and then Fakir will have to throw himself out a window. He'll have no choice.

Another, more threatening possibility occurs to him as well: if Mytho gets wind of this, _he might tell Rue._

He'll take the crippling guilt, thanks.

"It's none of your business." Fakir snaps, adjusting his reading glasses before making an unnecessarily harsh mark on his student's paper. He can feel Mytho's worried stare as he nearly rips the paper with his pen, and he's about to kick him out when three sound knocks come from the door.

_"Faki–ah, Professor Lohen?"_

Shit.

Mytho's brows quirk in surprise, turning to the door. "Is that Ahi–_rummph!_"

"_Shhh!_" Fakir hisses desperately, clamping his hand over his friend's mouth. He pulls Mytho to the floor beside him, edging his way back behind his desk. "Do you want her to hear you?"

Mytho pulls his hand away from his mouth, whispering confusedly. "Is she not supposed to hear me?"

"No!"

A light of realization sparks in the man's honey eyes, and Fakir thinks that this would be a prime time for that aneurysm to strike. It would be a blessing, really. Anything to keep him from having to answer the knowing question he can see ready to burst from Mytho's lips.

_"Uhh…Professor Lohen?" _Ahiru calls, voice muffled behind the heavy door. Fakir feels an overwhelming wave of gratitude that he'd had the foresight to lower the blind over his door's window before setting to work. _"Are you there?"_

"Fakir," Mytho whispers inquisitively, "Are you avoiding Ahiru?"

Fakir clenches his teeth to suppress a groan. The sound is telling enough, but his knee-jerk reaction is to _deny, deny, deny,_ so deny he does.

"Absolutely not."

"Then why do you not want to answer the door? I think you're avoiding her."

"You're insane."

"Says the one who pulled me under a desk."

Fakir will give him that one. For some reason, since Ahiru has come into his life, Fakir has found himself on the floor more and more in times of crisis, and he's not really sure of how to feel about it. He takes a small solace in the fact that at least the carpet of his office had been recently vacuumed.

_"I must sound really weird if you're not in there, talking to a door and all…then again, I guess there's nobody really around to sound weird to, but talking to myself is pretty strange anyway, huh?"_

Fakir digs the palm of his hands into his eyes, suppressing another strangled groan. Mytho nudges him with his foot, and he makes to swat him away like an irritating pest. A few feet away, he can hear Ahiru continuing to ramble behind the door. A new knot of guilt winds tightly in his gut when he hears how upset she sounds.

_"I know you must be mad,"_ She continues, voice so quiet that he almost misses it over his own squirming. _"But I think we really need to talk about what happened! I don't…"_

Fakir doesn't realize he's holding his breath until Mytho's elbow forces it from his lungs.

"Tell me what's going on right now." Mytho demands, features stern. The look completely juxtaposes the childish way he keeps poking and prodding at him like an excited toddler. Fakir scowls at him.

"I told you, it's none of your business!"

"Tell me or I'll let her in."

He freezes, malachite eyes widening slightly with panic.

"You wouldn't," Fakir challenges, though the slight quivering of his voice betrays his bluff.

Mytho quirks a snowy brow, daring him to not take him seriously. When Fakir makes no move to explain, he inhales deeply.

"Coming, Ah–"

Fakir dives at him, slapping his hand to Mytho's mouth while slamming his head into the bottom of the desk with a loud crack, rattling all the contents on top of it. "_Shut up,_ you idiot!" Fakir hisses, eyes wild with alarm as he hears Ahiru jiggle the doorknob.

_"Mytho? Is that you?"_ She calls, baffled. Fakir tightens his grip on Mytho's mouth, peering around the corner of his desk to glance at the door in anxiety. The doorknob jiggles again, and his heart thunders so hard against his ribcage that he feels like he might puke. _"Hello? Let me in!"_

"_Tull mph._" Mytho demands behind his hand. "_Tull mph nah!_"

Fakir weighs his options with dread. On one hand, he remembers the sharp, warning stab of Rue's french-tipped finger against his chest and the thinly veiled threat that followed. But on the other, he has his worst nightmare quite literally banging on his door, and if there is one thing worse than Rue's wrath, it is having to face Ahiru after what happened. He decides to risk disclosing what has transpired to Mytho, and prays that twenty years of friendship trumps violent, overprotective girlfriend privileges.

"Fine, fine." He acquiesces. "Just wait until she leaves. And you can _not_ tell Rue."

Mytho's golden eyes widen, knowing that this precursor could only have incredibly sensitive information follow. Fakir releases his death grip on the man's face to make sure he gets verbal confirmation that what he tells him will not under any circumstances reach Rue's ears.

"I promise." Mytho says seriously, expression sober. It's the most serious that Fakir's seen him today, and as wary as he is to feel his girlfriend's wrath, he can at least count on Mytho to stay true to his word.

_"Fakir, let me in! You can't ignore me forever! We have to talk about this!"_

Fakir peeks around the lip of his desk to glance at the door again anxiously. He can see the girl's faint silhouette behind his door's blind, but her efforts to open the door begin to lessen after a frantic minute of angrily jiggling the handle. He watches with baited breath until he hears a defeated, irritated sigh, followed by the sound of footsteps retreating down the hall.

As soon as it sounds like Ahiru has cleared the immediate area, Fakir gives a shaky sigh of relief. Said relief is short-lived, however, when Mytho levels a fairly impressive frown towards him. Honestly, how the hell is his mouth not tired from doing that?

"You know that she'll be back, right?"

Of course he knows that. Ahiru is one of the most stubborn people he's ever met, which is quite a feat considering who he is as a person himself. All this has done is confirm that he is avoiding her, and if there is one thing he knows that the redhead does not take kindly to, it's being ignored. He knows it's only a matter of time until she hunts him down to talk out what had happened. Curse her and her stupid, endearing, moronic sense of righteousness.

Fakir lets his head fall against his desk drawer, staring up at his office ceiling. The fan above them swirls around lazily, and he closes his eyes because all the motion does is bring up memories of piña coladas and phone calls and quite frankly the thoughts make him ill. He lets out a weak sigh.

"Yeah," He mumbles. Fakir would try to sound more irritated, but quite frankly the guilt and his throbbing head are putting a rather large damper on his temper at the moment.

"So what happened?" Mytho urges.

Fakir brings his knees to his chest and buries his face in his arms, humiliation and self-reproach burning in his chest. He can feel his ears burning too, though whether it is more from embarrassment or shame is anyone's guess. He manages to choke out what happened, but it's so quiet that Mytho misses it.

"What?" Mytho asks again. "Fakir, you need to speak up."

"_I said I kissed her!_" Fakir shouts, bursting like a tea kettle. He instantly deflates, curling back into himself in shame.

Mytho for once is blessedly silent, seeming to need a moment to process the information that Fakir had just threw in his face. He risks a peek from beneath his dark bangs towards his friend to see his reaction and immediately regrets it, because if the ceiling fan is making him a little sick, the grin on Mytho's face makes him want to puke.

"When did this happen?" Mytho asks excitedly, eyes bright with joy. "How did this happen? Oh, this is wonderful, Fakir!"

"You and I have two very different definitions of wonderful." Fakir grinds out.

"How did this happen?"

Fakir swallows thickly, recalling the memory in vivid detail. They had been in the library pouring over one of her recent assignments. It was an essay for another class, but she'd all but begged him to help her proofread it, so being the spineless pushover he is, he had agreed. Fakir can't really recall what exactly had lead to them being so close in the first place–all he knows is that at one point they were shoulder to shoulder looking over one of the pages, and suddenly he had his lips pressed against hers.

"What happened then?" Mytho asks, enthralled.

Fakir scoffs, cheeks flaming. "I did the only sensible thing I _could_ do: I got the hell out of there."

"You left?" He asks incredulously. Fakir scowls.

"Of course I left! I'm not just going to sit there and–and–" He can't even finish the sentence, mortification paralyzing his tongue. "_Dammit_." He swears, burying his face in his hands. "What am I going to do, Mytho?"

Mytho hums, surprisingly sympathetic to his friend's suffering. "Well, first I suggest that you stop avoiding her and actually talk about what happened. Running away is not going to solve anything."

Fakir wants to argue that it's been working out pretty well so far, until he feels the knob of his desk drawer dig in between his shoulder blades and he reminds himself of where the hell he's sitting. He groans, because as much as he hates admitting that Mytho is right, he can't keep hiding under his desk forever. He's already pretty sure that the crick in his neck from being crouched down isn't going to go away any time soon, either, and it just adds salt to the wound. But talking to Ahiru is something that he would very much rather avoid at all costs for the forseeable future, so for now he thinks he wants to take his chances.

Unfortunately for him, however, Mytho is irritatingly good at reading him, and calls him out before Fakir can even voice his protest.

"If you don't talk to her," He threatens, "I'll tell Rue."

Fakir gawks at him, betrayal clear on his face. "You promised you wouldn't!" He says furiously.

"I know I did, but you can't keep this up, Fakir." Mytho looks him in the eye, and Fakir wishes that he could hate him despite how genuinely concerned he looks. "I know that you're scared, but if you leave things the way they are now, then it's only going to go from bad to worse."

Curse him and his rationality, Fakir thinks scathingly. He finally sighs, defeated.

"Fine, I'll talk to her." He concedes, albeit begrudgingly.

"Good," Mytho says simply, standing up. He dusts off his pants with a few pats before heading to the door. "Now that I've finally gotten my answer, I believe that it's time I take my leave. You're still coming over for dinner, yes?"

Fakir glares at him from his seat beside his desk.

"I think I may have to take a rain check." He grinds out.

"Very well." Mytho replies airily. "It's too bad, Rue was making a cake."

"I'm sure I'll live." Fakir says. "And you're awful, by the way."

"It's only because I care, Fakir." He responds, waving over his shoulder as he exits. "Happy grading."

Fakir watches him go with a sense of dread. He can trust that Mytho won't actually tell Rue, but it is only a small consolation prize to help ease the anxiety writhing in his stomach. He remembers the sound of Ahiru's defeated tone and guilt burns white hot in his chest. She thinks that he's mad at her? The concept is practically laughable. _He's_ the one who had overstepped the line, and the fact that she somehow thinks it's her fault just makes him feel even worse.

For a moment he entertains the idea of just living under his desk for the rest of his pathetic life, living off of granola bars and the water jug in the corner of the room until he realizes that Ahiru had eaten his last one last week. With a defeated groan, he pulls himself back up into his chair to continue about his miserable fate, but not before hitting his head on the edge of the desk.


	32. Smell

**Written for ballerinaduck on tumblr.**

**The prompt:**

_**"How about "you smell really nice" for fakiru?"**_

**Rating: K**

**Genres: Fluff, Comedy**

* * *

_"Wh-What?!"_

Ahiru glances up at him from beneath long, long eyelashes, dewy blue eyes half-lidded and drowsy looking. Her cheek is pressed against the table, hands pillowing her forehead. She blows a stray strand of strawberry hair from her face and repeats with entirely too much ease,

"I said you smell really nice."

Fakir gapes at her from across the table, cheeks flaming. The book he had been studying so intently just moments before lays completely forgotten before him as he leans back in his seat, running a hand over his scalding face. He practically bristles beneath her gaze in a sudden fit of self-consciousness, hiding his mortification beneath a disbelieving scowl.

Ahiru picks up her head from the table, leaning her cheek on a hand with a confused tilt. She furrows her brow as if she has no idea at all the kind of turmoil she's just caused him and asks with a yawn, "What, is that weird to say or somethin'?"

"_Yes!_" Fakir hisses. "Honestly, do you even think before you open your mouth, or is your brain just like a broken faucet?"

"I was being _nice_, you jerk!" Ahiru shouts indignantly, straightening instantly in her seat. She gives him a swift kick to the shin and Fakir jolts, banging his knee loudly on the bottom of the table.

"_Quiet!_"

Fakir's scowl deepens as the library monitor's voice rings out from the lower level of the building, throwing a glare to his companion as he rubs a hand against his knee. Why the hell had he allowed her to tag along again? So far all she's done is knock over his stack of books, sleep, and kick him.

Useless.

"_Jerk_," Ahiru mumbles once more, voice now an acceptable volume for their surroundings. At least this time she has the decency to look embarrassed. "I was just trying to be nice."

Fakir's ears feel like they're ready to set his hair on fire. He quickly picks up his book to cover his face, ducking down behind it in an embarrassed fit. "Yeah, well next time don't be."

"Fine." She snaps, burrowing her head down into her arms. Fakir risks a glance at her from over his book and he manages to make out her muffled grumblings of "'S not like I _like_ pine trees or anything. Meanie."

As he quickly ducks back behind the safety of his book, Fakir presses his head against the cool wood of the table, cursing his luck and his poor composure. He only resurfaces again two hours later when it's time to leave to rouse Ahiru from her nap, and when he catches a small whiff of strawberries when she tosses back her hair he firmly decides that he's never bringing her again.


	33. Stay

**Written for ballerinaduck on tumblr. Written to "Stay With Me" by Angus and Julia Stone.**

**The prompt:**

_**"24. The way you said "I love you" without really meaning it"**_

**Rating: T**

_**Trigger Warnings: (Very) mildly suggestive content**_

**Genres: Angst**

* * *

He should be grateful.

She looks at him with eyes like still waters, and he drowns himself in memories of the lake when he kisses her lips. Her hands tremble as they clutch at his shirt, and he can picture these same hands clutched and shaking around her throat, pawing helplessly at the delicate chain of her necklace. It's been years now since that necklace has graced her slender neck, the hollow dip of her throat free of any jewelry as his mouth trails down its long expanse, but he can't help but think that he sees a gleaming pendant out of the corner of his eye.

_He should be grateful._

He should be down on his knees thanking every god and higher power he's ever known of for letting him know her like this. She's grown into a woman of subtle grace and reckless kindness, and beautiful in the way the summer heats one's cheeks or the way dandelions grow. She's still loud and clumsy and unsure at twenty-three, but there's a steadiness to her steps that has come with age and an acquiescence that breaks his heart.

She looks at him with warmth and gratitude and something very close to love, but it is nothing like the way she used to look at _him_. She looks at him the way one might look at a cherished friend or even a savior, (_though the thought of him saving anyone is a bitter joke that burns his tongue,_) but never as he truly is. Never as Fakir. Never as a man that loves her.

He presses his lips to her fluttering eyes and drinks in her quiet sigh with greed. It aches; it aches and aches and aches and _aches_. She's everything to him; the sun and the moon and the earth and the stars and the air that fills his withered lungs, but to her he is a consolation.

He should be grateful for even being _that_ much.

She smiles at him and laughs with him and kisses him sweetly and holds him close, but he can feel the distance like a gaping wound between them. Down in his very bones he knows that this is what it must feel like to drown, to know just how close the surface can be and to know that he'll never quite make it.

Yet he crawls to her time and time again, desperate for anything she's willing to give. And give and give and give she does, because she's Ahiru and she loves him (_but the difference pierces his heart like a blade,_) and she wants to make him happy. And God above, but he wants to be what makes _her_ happy! He'd give anything at all to be the thing that puts the light in her eyes, his body and soul and all that he is to be the one that she calls home.

He knows what she'll say, but he has to ask her: _"Do you love me?"_

And she responds just a moment too quickly, with just a touch too much of saccharine tenderness.

_"I love you more than anything."_

He does not miss the way her eyes darken, or how her fingertips drift to the hollow of her throat. But he is human, and he is weak, and so he takes whatever she will give him.


	34. Coffee, 8

**Written for battysorciere on tumblr. Future fic based off of the _Coffee_ series.**

**The Prompt:**

_"Imagine tho. Fakir is having a class and he is totally scolding all of them, calling then idiots etc, when Ahiru comes bouncing in with their bb and everyone is like "who the heck" and Fakir just sighs and Ahiru gives him a kiss goodbye and waves to the class and Fakir continues teaching with a baby in his arms and the class is left thinking "wtf judt happened"_

**Rating: K+**

_**Trigger Warnings: Minor language**_

**Genres: Comedy, Fluff, AU**

* * *

"Do you think I assign readings for _fun_? That I just throw it up on the board for _laughs_?"

The class visibly pales. It's well-known that Professor Lohen is one of the most difficult teachers at the university. Hell, _Rate-My-Professor_ has him made out to be Satan with reading glasses and a fetish for ten-page paper minimums. But there's no denying that he's damn good at what he does, even if he does do it with entirely more verbal abuse than necessary. Regardless, it's an introductory course! Who the hell even assigns readings during syllabus week? Ridiculous.

Professor Lohen stares them down with a glare that could level a mountain. The room is silent. Someone in the front coughs guiltily. A small whimper can be made out from the back. Fakir shoots them the evil eye, and everyone in the first three rows visibly wilt beneath the might of his blatant irritation.

"This isn't high school anymore," He continues, voice dripping with venom. "When I give you all an assignment I damn well expect it to be done, is that understood?" The students can only manage a weak nod, too scared to speak. If this reaction pleases him, Professor Lohen makes no move to show it. Instead, he audibly sighs through his nose, lips pursed, before announcing, "Books away, paper out. We're having a pop–"

_Knock knock knock–_

Professor Lohen's contempt for his 9 am seminar is redirected at the classroom door. Before he even gives whatever poor soul has dared to interrupt him permission, the door swings open, and then things get _weird_.

In trots a young woman with strawberry blonde hair cut into a feathery bob, covered in freckles and dressed in a pair of yellow polka-dot shorts. For how short she is and how young she looks, she could easily be mistaken for a student. That is, if she weren't carrying a baby.

The class holds a collective breath for the fate of the young woman who just came bounding in during the middle of one of Professor Lohen's legendary scoldings. But she does not seem the least bit concerned, her freckled face splitting into a wide, blushing grin. Even more perplexing than her apparent lack of concern for their teacher's wrath is Lohen's reaction itself–just vague surprise and the slightest upward quirk of his brows.

"Ahiru," He says, apparently familiar enough with another living human to be on a first-name basis with her. "What are you doing here?"

"I just got called in to work." The woman, Ahiru, replies. "Apparently there's a big emergency and somebody messed up something on the publication going out this Friday. Deadline is tomorrow, so the office'll be too chaotic to bring the little duckling in."

She says the last bit of her sentence with an affectionate coo, leaning in to give the baby a kiss on the forehead before turning back to the professor. "So, I've gotta leave him with you."

"Ahiru, if you haven't noticed, I'm kind of in the _middle of class_." Or shaving about ten years off his students' lives. Whatever. They're still too confused and wary to bother with semantics. "Where the hell are Rue and Mytho?"

"I can see that, silly. Hey guys!" She says, turning to them with a wave and a grin. The class is too startled at being addressed with actual pleasantries to respond to her cheerful greeting, but she turns back to Fakir so quickly that they didn't have time to react anyway.

"And they're on their second honeymoon, remember? Besides, I know very well that you could hear a pin drop when you teach, so it's not like there'll be too much noise for him to nap."

She hands the baby carrier off to him before leaning up and giving him a soft peck on the cheek, bolting for the door before Professor Lohen can protest. "Love you! You're the best! See you at home!"

The class stares towards the front in complete bewilderment, trying to comprehend that, that small woman must have been _Mrs. Lohen_, that their terrifying teacher is actually a _father_, and that the ring on his left hand isn't actually some sort of demon ward as they had originally theorized.

Professor Lohen simply sighs and pulls the baby from his carrier as he begins to stir, and balances him expertly on his hip while he turns around towards the board.

"I cannot stress enough how lucky you are that my son is in this room right now. Meaning, I cannot raise my voice for risk of waking him up, and that I will now be too preoccupied to grade the pop quiz that I was _about_ to give you before my wife decided to grace us with her presence."

The class gives a collective sigh of relief, and suddenly the atmosphere does a dramatic one-eighty. Instead of the impending doom that was hanging in the air a moment ago, the classroom returns to the usual business. Though, there is something distinctly different about their teacher–a softness around his edges that has never been seen before. Whether a quiet murmur to the baby when he sleepily starts gibbering or his strangely gentle _smile_, the air around their normally terrifying professor is oddly _peaceful_.

Though his son's presence still doesn't stop him from giving a girl in the fourth row the stink eye when she has the gall to say '_aww_'.


End file.
